The Two Year Emperor
by EagleJarl
Summary: It starts with a large fractal brick, some very scary paladins, and a very desperate situation. Things get worse from there.
1. Arrival

Someone smashed me in the head with a big fractal brick.

Suddenly I wasn't standing munching a tasty croissant at my favorite bakery anymore, I was falling...about a foot, to land flat on my back on a deep pile of cushions.

As I hit, someone poured half a gallon of LSD into my eyeballs. The sound of red and the color of salty exploded in my brain; words I'd never heard slammed through my ears and beat Broca and Wernicke to a bleeding pulp. Pages of non-existent books and maps and clay tablets and scrolls spun past too fast to see. Horrific monsters, all teeth and claws and wings and talons and spikes, sprang at me from all directions, passed through me and fought one another amidst terrifying roars.

After an eon or six, it stopped.

Blinking, I looked around to see what had happened. Then I blinked some more and rubbed my eyes. Nope, still there—not just a hallucination. I really was in a chilly stone room, surrounded by three old bearded guys in silk bathrobes, and there really were half a dozen very scary-looking men behind them in honest-to-god chainmail, with a sword in each hand, eyes fixed on the bathrobe types.

"Welcome, My Lord," said one of the bathrobe guys—the one with the longest beard. "You are in no danger, and we are at your service. I am sure you have many questions, and we will be delighted to answer them for you. We have provided a variety of food and drinks if you would like a meal." He gestured behind me; I turned to see a narrow credenza against the rear wall; it was piled high with the sort of spread you typically only see at really fancy weddings.

I was nauseous, my head hurt like it was under a piledriver, and I was so exhausted my brain felt like a fogbank.

_~Dehydration headache and hunger~_ I realized dimly, knowing the signs from plenty of days when I was lost in a project and I forgot to eat. Moving was the last thing I wanted to do, but I dragged myself over to the credenza, mechanically chewed a few grapes, and forced myself to swallow. Instantly, the nausea converted to hunger and I started gobbling down bread, cheese, and fruit. After multiple large handfuls I grabbed a pint mug of water, slammed it back, refilled it from the pitcher, slammed that, and drank a third a bit more slowly.

As always after a refueling session like that, the headache dimmed to a bearable level and I knew it would be gone in a few minutes. The hunger was gone but I felt unpleasantly bloated, like someone had force-fed me with a tube. _~Too much, too fast~_ I admitted to myself, exactly like I always did. Vowed not to do it again, exactly like I always did. Knew that I would, exactly like I always did. On the upside, my brain was working again.

I hadn't noticed their approach, but there were two of the chainmail guys standing by me, one on either side, facing out with blades in hand and staring at the bathrobe guys with a look much like that of a pissed off Rotweiller on a very thin leash. The other four were behind and beside the bathrobe brigade with exactly the same look. A blinking neon sign over their heads saying "elite bodyguard" would have been completely superfluous.

What the hell?

The three guys in bathrobes were looking at me, but waiting patiently for me to get my bearings. The chainmail guys were still standing right behind them, staring at Long-beard and friends, swords in hand.

"Ok, what is going on? Where am I, and why am I here?"

The central bathrobe guy (_~aww, hell, just admit it, he's a wizard~_) smiled, bowed very slightly, and said "You are in the castle at the center of Capital City, the first and largest city in the Kingdom of Flobovia, on a Prime Material Plane parallel to your own. I and my fellow Archmagi"—he gestured at the two others standing beside him—"have summoned you across the Void to be the absolute ruler of our nation for the next two years. Your rule is, I regret, compulsory, but at the end of the two years, you will be laden with riches and our deepest thanks, and then released."

I blinked at him, then asked about the single most crucial point. "Flobovia?"

He looked a bit embarrassed. "Yes, well, it is a rather silly name...the ruler ten years ago was named Flob Arten—quite a common name on his plane, I gather—and he changed the name of the nation. No ruler since then has cared to change it back, and no one else has the authority to do so."

"So...basically, the kingdom is named something like 'Bobville'," I stated, unbelieving.

One of the other wizards chuckled. "Hazards of an absolute dictator, I'm afraid. In general, the system works very well; we get a constant supply of new ideas, new technologies, new ways of doing things, and an overlord with the power to see them put into effect quickly. The terms of the Summoning ritual prevent us from getting anyone deranged or brain damaged, but we do occasionally get rulers who are foolish, stupid, or unkind."

I frowned in puzzlement. "When you get someone like that, why don't you just send them home and try again?"

The bodyguard furthest from me answered without ever taking his eyes off the wizard whom he was clearly ready to puree. "Because the Landguard would kill anyone who tried. The ruler holds power for two full turning of the seasons. So it is writ."

I digested that. "So, a bunch of wizards kidnapped a perfectly ordinary guy off the street, brought him to Bobville—excuse me, 'Flobovia'—to be their absolute ruler, to shower with jewels and power and obey his every whim, and he has a bunch of super-lethal bodyguards fanatically dedicated to him from the moment he shows up despite the fact that they know absolutely nothing about him and he could be a complete fool."

Long-beard looked a bit embarrassed. "Well, um...yes?"

"And Capital City is the capital city of the nation?"

Long-beard was now red as a tomato. "Um...yes?"

I just nodded, still in a bit of shock. "You realize this sounds like the plot to a really hackneyed piece of fanfic, right? Likely some sort of self-insert Mary Sue crap. Do you have Rainbow Dash, Twilight Sparkle, and the other My Little Ponies down in the royal stable?"

Even the bodyguards looked at me in bewilderment.

The wizard who had chuckled before spoke slowly. "I'm...afraid I don't know how to get you a dash of rainbows, My Lord, but we'd be happy to find you some ponies if that's acceptable. If you don't mind a suggestion, though—perhaps you'd like to relocate to a more comfortable location for the rest of this conversation? The Work Room is excellent for rituals, but remarkably lacking in chairs." His lips quirked in humor at the last, and I decided I liked this guy.

I shrugged bewildered acceptance and gestured towards the door. "After you."

As the wizards turned away, the Landguard troopers relaxed very slightly. It suddenly hit me that they had been expecting me to be angry and order the deaths of my summoners...and that they would have done it. I resolved to be very, very careful about what I said and did; I didn't want some poor chambermaid getting massacred just because she startled me in the shower.

_~Do they even have showers here?~_ I wondered idly as I followed the Archmagi down the hall.


	2. The Shape of Things

By the time we got to the sitting room, I had been introduced to Thomas, commander of the Landguard, and all of his subordinates. The names of the junior 'Guards went in one ear and out the other; there were just too many names too fast to keep track of. I think one of them was Bob, but for all I knew it could have been Loraanthalakalodaladarin—what the heck, it was a world with mages, right? Why were these people named Thomas and Bob, anyway?

I had made a special effort to remember the names of the Archmagi, repeating them over and over to myself as we walked. Isaac, Reynard, Matthew. Isaac, Reynard, Matthew. Isaac had the long beard, Reynard was the funny one, Matthew was the quiet one. Isaac, beardy. Reynard, funny, Matthew, quiet. Isaac, Reynard, Matthew. I had the names pretty well down by the time we arrived at the sitting room, where we relaxed in overstuffed armchairs and sipped tea from fine china in front of a toasty fire. (Of course the six Landguard insisted on standing, but at least they had sheathed their swords.) I had also figured out the obvious question.

"Ok, so, where's the invading army coming from?"

All three Archmagi looked flabbergasted. "How could you possibly—" Reynard began.

I cut him off. "I read a lot of science fiction and fantasy. Coramonde, Erfworld, Thomas Convenant, Wizard in Rhyme, Wizard's Bane—the only reason modern-world people are ever sucked into a fantasy world is because there's some Big Bad coming, and it's usually an army. Beside, no hack fanfic author would miss out on the drama of an invading army."

They just stared at me like utterly boggled deer in very bright headlights. Then stared at each other other in bogglement. Then stared at me, still boggled.

"Ahem," said Isaac, looking vaguely embarrassed yet again. "Well, actually, yes, there is an armed force invading from the south. A rather large one, actually. Nearly comparable to that of Emperor Charles the Great, the overlord of lower Tarisia. Tarisia, of course, is our neighbor to the east and four hundred years ago—"

I broke in, nodding assuredly. "These invaders—enormous horde of vicious barbarians, right? Looting, pillaging, burning everything to the ground, lamentations of their women kind of folks?"

"Oh no," said Isaac, happy to be able to pontificate again. "As I was saying, much like the army of Emperor Charles; extremely professional and well-led soldiers with plenty of powerful magic users in support—far more than we have, actually, especially the higher level mages. They seem to have made some impressive advances in the fields of both Abjuration and Conjuration, as evidenced by their use of wide-area shielding and various kinds of missile strikes and conjured creatures. I have a theory on that, actually—"

Thomas cleared his throat pointedly and Isaac wound down, looking startled.

"In a more military sense, My Lord" said Thomas, picking up the thread of the answer, "the enemy is moving quickly, zigzagging across the nation to conquer all of our towns and cities. They actually treat their conquered people quite well as long as a city or town submits. They set up a local satrapy but rule lightly from what we can discover. Two cities, Oxport and Tor Cannle, refused to surrender, and the Deorsi eradicated them. Literally eradicated—they conquered the cities, killed every living thing right down to the dogs and cats, burned the place to the ground, and finally pulled the wreckage apart so that not a trace of any structure remained except the foundations. It was brilliant; after that example, all the other cities and towns are surrendering."

I groaned. "Fantastic. Mongol tactics; utterly destroy anyone who opposes you and treat cooperative people well. And the Mongols ended up ruling most of a continent. They probably end up causing fewer deaths this way, actually." I sighed gloomily. "Your population base is going to desert in droves."

Once again, Thomas cleared his throat. "_Your_ population now, My Lord."

I glared at him but my glare bounced off like a Gummy Bear hitting a brick wall. "Look, I can't do this job. I'm a web programmer, not a ruler. I don't know the first thing about leading an army, or running a country. Shoot, I don't even balance my checkbook, and you want me to help run the economy of your nation? Why in the _world_ would you want me?"

He fixed me with a Look and replied, "The spell chose you to be the ruler, so you are the ruler. You serve for two full turnings of the seasons, then you are rewarded and released. So it is writ. And so it _will be_, My Lord." Throughout this oh-so-subtly-threatening speech, his voice remained calm, even, and without even a trace of a hint of a possibility that he could be moved. Reminded me of the Terminator, actually. Only less cuddly.

Which suddenly raised a flag in my head. _~Come on Jake, you're supposed to be genre savvy~_ I thought, angry with myself for missing the obvious. And I had a feeling that this might not want to be a public conversation.

"Everyone, could you give us the room for a moment? Thomas, you stay."

The Archmagi frowned at being dismissed so cavalierly, but they went. The Landguard all looked at Thomas; he gave them a small nod and they relucantly drifted out the door with many a disgruntled look back.

"Sit down." I said firmly, pointing at the chair opposite me. He sat down smoothly, face impassive.

"Let's get specific. What _exactly_ are the terms of the Landguard's service?"

He raised an eyebrow but answered readily enough. "We serve the Land, the Law, and the ruler in whatever capacity is required. The Land refers to the common citizens and the Law is the set of documents that define the core structure of the nation. Our primary duty is as a bodyguard to the ruler, but we also provide oversight for the justiciars in the outlying towns and villages and help the people against large scale problems—floods, drought, crop failures, and so on. Very occasionally we are given unusual duties, such as when Othar the Black was sent to negotiate a trade treaty with a neighboring kingdom. Although maybe that shouldn't count; it's a warrior culture and he was from one of their border towns."

I nodded and homed in on the key item. "You serve the Land, the Law, and the ruler—_in that order_, right? So if I give you an order that goes against either the Land or the Law, you would ignore it?"

"Yes, My Lord."

I thought for a moment, phrasing the next question very carefully. "Hypothetically speaking, what would your response be if I took some action that was directly opposed to the Land or the Law?"

He didn't bat an eyelash. "Hypothetically speaking, I would warn you not to, and if you insisted I would kill you."

Yeah, that didn't send icy worms crawling down my spine at all. Nope, nope, nope. Just sitting in a chair and speaking politely this guy was hella scary.

I sat back for a moment and gathered my thoughts. Thomas waited patiently.

"Ok, well good, now I'm clear on that part of it. What are the limits of your service?"

He cocked his head slightly in confusion, looking just a bit like the RCA dog. "I'm afraid I don't understand the question, My Lord."

"Well, for example, if I gave you some stupid or frivolous order, would you do it? Like, if I said, 'hop on one foot for the rest of the day', would you actually do it?"

"Of course. Do you want me to?" He seemed baffled that I would even ask, and vaguely irritated that I might give such a demeaning order but at least he was trying to keep things polite.

"No. I'm just trying to understand your government and how I fit into it. All of these are just hypotheticals."

"Very well, My Lord."

This whole calm-and-accepting fanatical service thing was starting to really creep me out. I pushed those thoughts down and plowed on.

"What if—and again, this is just hypothetical, don't do it—I ordered you to kill yourself? Or another Landguard, or some important political figure in the government? Would the part about 'the Land' interfere?"

"If you gave me that order, I would kill myself, or that person. Neither the Landguard nor the members of government are commoners, so they are not part of the Land."

This was moving into outright slavery, and it was scaring the crap out of me. No one should be this insanely devoted to an oath.

I decided to raise the point. "Thomas...this is really scary, and not healthy. You shouldn't be this willing to die for no reason, just because some flake that got drafted from another dimension tells you to."

He shook his head, still stone cold. "Respectfully, My Lord, you are wrong. The Landguard is small, but we are the best trained soldiers in the nation, equipped with more and better magic items than anyone else, and we have significant, and permanent, magical enhancements laid on us when we take up service. We provide a major deterrant against rebellion by the nobles; it's been eight hundred years since there was a civil war in Flobovia." His lips quirked very slightly at the name. "If there were the slightest doubt that our oaths are not absolutely binding, the nobles and the merchants would gather their forces to defend themselves against us. We could easily trigger the very civil war we were created to prevent. "

I digested that for a moment and had to admit it made sense. I forced myself to get past the weird pseudo-slavery part and recognize the validity of the political reasons for it. I noticed myself feeling revolted by that and the act of noticing made me detached from those feelings. Then I noticed myself noticing and quickly forced my thoughts elsewhere before the recursion made my brain explode.

My head is a weird place, sometimes.

The important thing here was that Thomas The Scarily Honorable was much better at explaining things than Isaac The Long-Winded Pontificator. Thomas was also more likely to give me straight answers.

"And what about the Archmagi? What is their relationship to...whatever my office is?"

Thomas gave a tiny shrug. "There isn't one, really. All three are members of the Association of Magi, of course, but that's only so they can have access to the Capital City Library's magic section. And of course they have the duty of performing the Summoning that brings the ruler here every two years. Mostly because they're the only ones who can."

"So they aren't obligated to be honest with me or anything like that? They must have an axe to grind—what is it?"

He just looked at me as though I had suddenly put a rubber chicken on my head. "An axe to grind?"

_~Note to self: whatever magic is doing the translating for me has trouble with idioms.~_ "An agenda, something they want."

He nodded, pursing his lips in thought for a moment. "Well, the Association is always looking for financial support; spell research can get expensive. Besides that, for decades they've been agitating for better access to the Capital City Library, and _any_ access to the Imperial Library. Both are held under the control of the throne and access to them is the main tool that the nation has to force the Association mages to obey the laws. If a wizard wants to set up a tower out in the wilderness somewhere, they pretty much can. The problem is that, when they do, they typically start doing experiments that end up eiter blowing up vast tracts of land or creating monsters which they can't be bothered to care for...so they push them out the door and they go off to terrorize the neighborhood until the Landguard or some adventurers show up to deal with the issue."

Huh, wizards as toxic waste dumpers; that was a new one. For now, though, I felt like I had enough to go on.

"Ok, let's get the others back in here and move on." He rose, went to the door, and called everyone back in. After they had settled back into their chairs, Isaac leaned forward and was opening his mouth to start pontificating again.

I jumped in quickly. "Thomas, if I'm going to actually have to run this show—or even pretend to—I need to understand how it works. In particular, how the government is structured, how magic works, and whatever you can tell me about our military and the invaders. Take it in whatever order you want. Give me the 50,000 foot view."

Thomas paused a moment, organizing his thoughts. Then he started talking, laying out everything I had asked for. He stopped several times to point out that he was not an expert on magic; each time, he tried to defer the question to one of the Archmagi, but each time, I waved him on.

"Excuse me gentlemen," I told them the first time I shut Isaac down. "I'll ask you to explain the details of magic in a moment, but for now it's more important to get the basics, and particularly to get them as they're understood by a layman. I'm interested in how much magical knowledge there is among the general population." The last was vaguely true, but mostly it was a line of bullshit intended to salve their ego. Getting it from Thomas was a lot better than listening to Isaac ramble on. I had met geeks who reminded me a lot of him; if you asked them the time, they'd tell you how to mine, smelt, and machine metal in order to build the tools to build the gears to build a clock.

"We've got a lot to cover," I added. "It'll be more efficient if we don't switch speakers much. Please bear with me."

Isaac looked sour at being denied his time in the spotlight, but the others just shrugged and leaned back, enjoying the fire. Thomas went back to laying out the high level summary.

The government turned out to be a fairly simple feudal setup; at the bottom were the yeomen, then petty nobles (knights, minor lords, and so on), baronets, counts, dukes, and the ruler at the very top. There were also religious orders and mage schools which were technically under control of the ruler but were actually powerful enough to mostly go their own way. And finally, there was the Conclave of Lords.

The Conclave was the only unusal thing in this otherwise boilperplate-fantasy-novel stew—seven members, one each from the six main powergroups plus the Commander of the Landguard. Each of the members was among the most powerful and respected member of their particular class; mages, nobles, merchants, and so on. They were referred to as "Lord Mage", "Lord Merchant", or whatever. Interestingly, there was even a "Lord Shadow", the representative of the criminal class. Apparently the crime societies were willing to trade a degree of restraint for a degree of legitimacy (which actually seemed like a really good idea when I thought about it).

Unsurprisingly, the organized crime cartels ended up being better police than the actual police (which made a lot of sense actually; as I recall both the Mafia and the Yakuza used to do the same thing in the real world). Case in point: certain types of crime simply didn't happen in Flobovia. The annual number of rapes could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and there was no arson anywhere that fires were likely to spread out of control—although plenty of arsons happened in other places, and oftentimes someone normally outside the criminal class would burn down a competitor's warehouse or such.

The Conclave were officially just an advisory body to the ruler with no power of their own. In actuality they functioned more as a parliament or congress, with substantial lawmaking ability, and they often clashed with the ruler or went behind his back. It was a very "John Marshall has made his decision, now let him enforce it!" setup, except in reverse. Whatever, it seemed to work for them.

I gathered from some disgruntled comments that Isaac and Reynard made that most of the Conclave's law-making time was spent on laws related to magic. Turns out that teaching random people how to play skee ball with the laws of the universe is not totally compatible with a quiet and peaceful city. Between drunken mage brawls in the taverns, occasional escaped demons, out-of-control elementals, rampaging golems, magic items being constructed and sold with little to no quality assurance, spell misfires that turned three city blocks purple, and absent-minded mages falling out of the sky when they forgot the duration on their Fly spells...well, let's just say that boredom was really not a problem in Flobovia's capital.

There were other laws, of course. One that I was pleased to hear about was the Slavery Nullification Edict of Sultan Phil the Second's Year 2. (First off, they reset their calendar every two years? Really? And, more important...'Sultan Phil'? Seriously? And he was the _second one_?! Either the people who interdimensionally ganked random weirdos to run this place had a corny sense of humor or the universe was a lot more twisted than I had thought.) The Edict decreed that slavery was illegal in Flobovia and that any slave who touched Flobovian soil was thereafter free. I was thrilled at Flobovia's enlightened stance... until two minutes later, when I heard about the number of people in debtor's prison or, worse, outright debt peonage. That took the bloom off the rose pretty darn fast.

The details kept coming as we talked; it was a lot to take in, but I just set my brain on record and tried to soak up as much of it as possible.

Once I let Isaac start talking I got a lot more detail on the magic, although I had to keep nudging him to stay on point. The magic was much easier to follow than the politics since I already had a good grasp on the ideas. It was the standard Vancian magic system used in D&D and other games on my world; wizards memorized spells in the morning from giant books that they carried around while clerics needed prayer instead of a book. Some spells had material components, some of which were expensive or bulky. A few types of casters, such as sorcerers, could cast spells without memorizing them first, but most of these types had stringent restrictions on what they could cast. And, of course, the caster's level determined how many spells could be cast per day.

I raised a hand to interrupt. "Hang on, what did you say? What was that about levels?"

Isaac looked confused for a moment, then seemed to understand. "Oh, of course. You must be from a dimension with an incompatible mystic framework—one of those point based ones, maybe? Anyway, yes, here people have class levels in whatever their profession is and—"

I couldn't help it, I burst out laughing.

"You're kidding," I said wiping the tears away and still snickering. "Class levels? Wizards, clerics, and sorcerors? Let me guess: you also have hit points, time is measured in 6-second rounds, Magic Missile is a first level wizard spell that creates a ball of force which never misses. And, let me guess—Thomas you're...what, a 15th level fighter? No, wait, you're a paladin, aren't you?"

If Thomas had been confused before, now he was amazed; oddly, the wizards were just grinning quietly to themselves. "18th, actually, and yes, paladin. If you didn't even know what class levels were, how did you know all that?"

I started snickering again and waved the question away, musing out loud. "Hah, so this isn't just a hackneyed piece of Mary Sue fanfic, it's a hackneyed piece of Mary Sue _D&D_ fanfic. I wonder if it's based on some schmuck's game?" I shrugged to myself. "Well, at least I remember some of the rules. Wish I'd played more recently but meh, Sir Poley and Milo were good teachers."

Thomas had clearly given up trying to understand a word I was saying and had gone back to simply waiting quietly until my little brain-ramble wound down.

"Right, ok, a few more questions. Let's start with actions; I remember that there are different types and restrictions on what you can do with each in a turn, but I don't remember the details. I've got a couple ideas for the Deorsi, but I need to know if... they... work." Something weird was happening inside my head; it felt like movie credits scrolling past behind my eyes.

The four of them were sitting back; the wizards' smiles looked like cats with cream on their whiskers. Isaac's smile looked positively smug, Matthew's was pleased, and Reynard's was just a quiet little thing, mostly hidden behind the cloud of smoke emanating from the pipe he had pulled from a pocket. Thomas's just looked a little sympathetic.

"Check me on this," I said slowly. "Time is measured in six second rounds. In a round, I can do one full-round action. Or a standard action and a move action. Or two moves. In any case, I can take one or more free actions at any point. Picking up an object is a move, and dropping it is a free. Right?"

They all nodded.

I turned on Reynard. "Ok, what the hell?" I half-spat. "How the hell do I know this stuff?! It's like there's some...weird encycopedia in my head. What did you do to me?"

Reynard just kept munching his bread, quiet smile firmly in place, as Isaac jumped in. His answer was insufferably smug. "Well, we can hardly afford to have a ruler who doesn't speak the language or know how the world works, now can we? The Summoning is quite specific; it finds someone skilled at their trade, of sound mind and body, without too many close ties to their homeland that would make it hard to transport them through the Void. It brings them here and, in the process, it provides them a grounding in the basics of this world. How time and movement work, the various languages, the map of the nation and rough details about the adjoining nations and our relations to them, a few other things. In addition, it takes whatever non-magical written information is inside the Summoning Circle, burns it to ash, and embeds the information therein in your mind. In your case, we had it implant a compendium of all the creatures of a mystic origin and many of the mundane ones we knew of, plus the effects of all the spells the three of us knew or could find descriptions for. You won't be able to cast them, of course, but you'll know how they work."

I was stuck somewhere between sensibile admiration, rage, and shock.

_~They messed with our __**mind**__!~_ said Rage.

_~But it was a smart thing to do. And pretty useful.~_ said Sensibility.

_~Wurble, wruble, flibble...gahhhhhhhh!~_ said Shock.

_~See?! Shock is on my side! They messed with our MIND!~_ said Rage.

_~He's not on your side, he's just babbling.~_ said Sensibility.

It was about at this point that I had to laugh at myself for actually imagining this internal dialogue. The laughter blew the anger and shock away, and my sensible side was back in control. Rage whispered a final snide comment at me before dispersing: _~you know they'll do it again if they feel it's necessary._~ I shook the thought away but it still took root in a dark little corner of my heart.

Looking at Reynard again, I shrugged. Having the summoning ritual give the ruler a general knowledge base, in fact, was a very sensible thing. And in my case, an incredibly useful one. I would need to know this stuff cold if I was going to Munchkin my way out of this mess.

I visualized my new Brainopedia as a giant leather-bound tome—I always liked that word, "tome", so much classier than the banal "book." In my mental picture it was thicker than the New York yellow pages, more than a cubit tall—another cool word, 'cubit'—and about half that wide. I riffled through it until I found the pages I needed, reviewing the map of the countryside, and the descriptions of certain spells and constructs.

"Ok, let's get back to it. How badly are we outnumbered?"

Thomas's answer sounded grim. "If we strip the nation bare we can raise about twenty thousand troops, plus the two thousand Landguard and a few hundred members of the special units. As far as we can tell, the Deorsi outnumber us five to one in troops and, on average, their troops are better—we'd guess they're each about fourth level fighters, maybe higher, while ours are mostly first or second. It's also clear that they have more wizards of each level, and more mages overall, than we do. They also have excellent cleric support so healing isn't a problem for them."

Argh. This was going to suck. "Ok...tell me about these 'special forces' you mentioned?" I was hoping that they were all crossbreed ninja clones made from the genomes of Chuck Norris and Arnold Schwarzenegger; badass shadow warrior assassins able to cause earthquakes by punching the ground and dual-wielding infinite-ammo paired miniguns.

Thomas shrugged. "The special units are comprised entirely of people with class levels—many of them quite high—who want to be attached to the army but not _in_ the army. They serve in their own small squads, usually four to six people to a squad but sometimes as few as two or as many as seven. They generally have a mix of class types, although sometimes they will all be of the same or related classes. They provide most of their own gear, although they are able to requisition supplies, equipment, healing, and so on from any army base. In general, they are equipped with a broad assortment of combat-oriented magical gear which makes them extremely useful in certain capacities—scouts, snipers, siege breakers, various other things. They are highly paid and take strategic direction from High Command, but make their own tactical choices."

I nodded. "So, basically, adventuring parties who decided that army service is nicer than dungeon crawls but aren't willing to put up with marching in rows. Ok, got it. What about the Landguard?"

Thomas glanced at the Archmagi appraisingly. "Our number is restricted by Writ to two thousand, M'Lord, all paladins. Beyond that, I would prefer to answer in private, if I may."

I was surprised by the answer but decided not to push it; he surely had a good reason. Instead, I turned to other things.

The briefing kept going, covering a wide variety of topics. Many of them were in my Brainopedia, at least in outline, but it was useful to get details and confirmation from Thomas or one of the Archmagi. On one or two subjects, the Brainopedia turned out to be incorrect or misleading, which was profoundly disturbing.

Two hours in, we stopped briefly to order some food. Within five minutes, a girl in a maid's uniform was bringing in a tray with a big piping hot meat pie, an array of fresh baked breads, multiple kinds of cheeses and fruit, and a pitcher of hot cider. She was very pretty but I chose to ignore it; I was old enough to be her father. She also carried a canvas bag containing charcoal briquettes, which she added neatly to the fire, using tongs so as not to get herself filthy.

"Thanks, Suze. Tasty stuff! Apple trees, right?" said the flames.

I practically jumped out of my chair. "Yow!" I yelled. "It talks!"

The young maid looked at me in alarm, clearly frightened. "Yes, M'Lord," she said, bobbing a nearly frantic curtsy. "This is Allison, M'Lord. She's a salamander, M'Lord, and responsible for providing the fire in whatever room of the castle you're in, M'Lord."

"She's also _right here_", said the fire grumpily. "I can talk for myself, Suze. Anyway, yes, Your High and Mightiness, I'm bound to, and I quote, 'provide cheery, pleasant, and well contained light and heating for the ruler regardless of his spatial location.' So, yeah, I follow you around like a puppy dog and sit in the boring old fireplace or on a torch or a candle except when you specifically tell me to sod off and leave the room dark so you can sleep." This was followed by, I swear to God, a disgruntled sniff. How she did it with no nose, I have no idea.

"I came to this plane to see things, talk to things, and taste things. I wanted to munch on some of the yummy peach trees and delicious anthracite seams and the miles of delicious dried grasses that I had heard so much about. Instead, I've been squatting in this freezing pile of rock for five hundred years, following the latest doofus from room to room. High point of my day is when one of the girls brings me something tasty to nosh. By the way, thanks again Suze; this really is yummy."

I was grinning from ear to ear. _Finally_, someone who didn't think I was the Second Coming. Seeing my grin, Suze unbent enough to respond to the little elemental, although she was still shy about it. "You're welcome, Allison. I know how much you like the apple charcoal, so I asked them to set some aside for you."

I bowed to the fireplace. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Allison. Please excuse my jumpiness, I've never met an elemental before. Anyway, give me some time, and I'll see if we can't improve things for you. In the meantime—Suze, please make sure Allison gets nothing but the apple charcoal, or whatever other fuel she likes that we have available. And thanks for introducing us."

Suze looked at me wide-eyed, as though I'd just grown a second head out of my elbow. But she quickly gathered herself up, bobbed another curtsey and, with a hurried "Yes, M'Lord" she was gone.

We went back to the briefing, continuing for several hours until I started feeling like my brain was going to explode. At that point, I rose to wish them all goodnight, saying that I would sit here a bit longer.

"Your guards, of course, will need to remain, M'Lord," Thomas declared firmly, even as he started to rise.

I pulled a face. "Can't they just wait outside? I'd like some time to myself."

Thomas's answer was granite-firm. "No, M'Lord. You cannot be left alone; so it is writ."

I sighed. "Fine, you stay, the other guards leave. Gentlemen," I said, turning to the Archmagi and offering a handshake. "Thank you for your help tonight; the details really helped." In a moment, I was alone again with Thomas while Allison crackled in the fireplace.

Settling back into my chair, I let my thoughts drift for a long while until I was right on the edge of falling asleep. Eventually, a thought nagged at me.

"I'm guessing most of your rulers aren't terribly polite to the servants?" I asked Thomas idly, thinking back to Suze and her jumpiness. He raised an eyebrow at the odd topic, but answered. "Not really, M'Lord. Most of them treat the servants as conveniences. The previous ruler was a good example; harmless enough but unthinking and somewhat insulting to those around him. Spent most of his time in his workroom building little gadgets. He was fond of calling one of the serving girls up to his rooms at night, though. The one before him was more competent, but also enjoyed his, ah, 'prerogatives'."

"That ends now," I told him firmly, my lethargy forgotten. "Anyone, of any rank, who compels a woman to have sex against her will will be punished severely. Got it?"

Thomas grinned in satisfaction. "I'll make sure to pass the word, M'Lord."

"That's another thing—this My Lord crap has to go, at least between you and me. You're going to be with me all the time, and you're going to be one of my principle advisors. Call me Jake."

Thomas nodded, saying nothing.

"Good to meet you too, Jake," Allison said. "So, you guys gonna be talking late, Jake? Because, you know, if you're not, you can always order me outta here, Jake. I know when I'm not needed, Jake." said Allison, making it obvious that she was deliberately yanking my chain with the familiarity; especially since I hadn't explicitly offered it to her.

I snorted and grinned again. "No, please stick around for now, Allison; we've got a lot to discuss, and you make the room a lot nicer. Feel free to chime in if you've got anything relevant. Just...please don't distract us, I'm beat."

"Huh. You know, you're the first ruler in five hundred years who's ever said more to me than 'Brighter' or 'Hotter'." She sounded exactly the same as a person would while watching a dolphin ride a bicycle to the market for fresh coleslaw.

I gave her a tired smile. "It's nice to have someone to talk to who isn't too impressed with me." Something raised a flag, and I asked her "Lacking any segue at all, what are the exact terms of your binding?"

"'Terms having been agreed, this elemental shall be bound by its True Name'—I'm not saying my Name so don't ask—"'unto those terms, which are as follows: the elemental shall provide cheery, pleasant, well-controlled and well-contained light and heating for the ruler regardless of the ruler's spatial location. Said light and heat shall be provided to whatever degree and from whatever location the ruler requires. The elemental shall not depart the ruler's presence unless explicitly ordered to depart by the ruler in his or her own person and of the ruler's own free will. When not needed, this elemental shall return directly to the circle of its summoning and wait for the ruler to call it back, at which time it shall return to the ruler instantly and resume its duties. The elemental shall hold in confidence all aspects of the ruler's life, including but not limited to conversations, thoughts, appearance, location, close companions and advisers, actions of any sort, and all other details pertaining unto the ruler. At no time shall the elemental harm any living being.'"

I sat back, thinking it through.

Allison hemmed a bit. "That's a rough translation, of course. The actual language of magic is far more precise than this sloppy stuff that you meatsacks use."

Both Thomas's and my lips quirked a bit at that. "Sloppy, huh? That oath sounded like something a whole team of pricey lawyers would draw up," I told her. "So, since 'Allison' clearly isn't your True Name, where did it come from?"

Her reply sounded wistful. "There was a cleaning woman named Allison here in the castle, about fifty years after I got here. Cute little thing, about Suze's age. One of her jobs was to keep me fed, so we saw each other every day. Neither of us had many people to talk to, so we would always take some time to chat."

I nodded, understanding how nice it was to make a friend when you were lonely in a strange place; I'd been there when I first moved cross-country. "I'm sorry you were lonely. What happened to the original Allison?"

"She got old, then she died."

"Oh." I'd put my foot straight into that one; Allison-the-elemental had been here for five hundred years, of course she'd outlived everyone she'd known along the way. "I'm sorry, I should have realized."

"Meh, it happens," she said, clearly making an effort to shake off the mood. "You meatbags go out like fireflies—which, by the way, is a really stupid name, since there's no fire in them at all."

"Yeah, I know, just chemical reaction," I responded distractedly. I sighed tiredly. "Thomas, do I really need to lead this war effort personally? There must be experienced people in charge of the army and whatever. Can't they lead while I just stay out of the way?" Even to me, my voice sounded whiny.

Thomas shook his head firmly. "No, M'Lo—no, Jake. Incidentally, you really should decide on what title you want to use; My Lord is the term of respect used for someone of unknown rank, so it would be good to identify yourself.

"To answer your question, however: yes, we have competent generals; I would even say that one or two of them are brilliant. But it doesn't matter; none of the generals can think of a way to win; we simply don't have the forces or the strength to defeat the Deorsi.

I sighed and thought for a minute. "Okay, they're almost certainly going to cross the Maligaw River. Most of it is too deep and too fast for that to be safe, and there's only two bridges. Right?"

Thomas nodded. "Yes, exactly. And if we cut the bridges, it would be relatively easy to prevent them from building new bridges by hand. They could do it with magic, but even after they make it across the river, the border with Elfhame bulges inward; they'll either need to pass through the Hame or lose almost a week marching west before they can turn north and come towards us again. Our generals thought of that; they don't feel that they could hold the river. Instead, the Deorsi would pin them down with part of their force and circle around with the rest. We could lose the entire army that way."

"But isn't it better than nothing? We could hold them for a while, bleed them a bit, then retreat and do it again somewhere else. We can't afford a stand up fight or to let them reach the capital, so we need to keep them moving sideways across the country. And we need to make sure that every battle we fight is from a solid position. Strategic offensive, tactical defensive." I was quoting directly from some of my favorite alternate-history fantasy but hey, it wasn't like there was anyone here who could sue me for copyright violation.

Thomas shrugged, clearly not agreeing but unwilling to argue any further. "Well, no matter what route they take they'll go past several cities and a lot of towns. If they stop to deal with the cities, which seems to be their pattern, that'll give us another week or ten days. They'll also need to drop off small detachments at each city and town to run the place, so their numbers will be a bit reduced by the time they arrive."

I nodded, consulting my Brainopedia again. "Right...the can't go through the Fens because they'd lose half their army to quicksand and the local fauna," I paused as the Brainopedia coughed up an interesting tidbit. "Especially the fenfrogs." The 'frogs weren't actually frogs, but they looked like frogs. They literally ate magic; anything touched by their four-foot tongues was sucked dry of all mystic energy. Magic items were permanently drained and spellcasters lost the ability to use magic for a week or so. "And they can't circle the Fens to the west, because the headwaters of the Fens are well inside the Senis Hills, and after that the mountains."

Thomas nodded. "Indeed. No one goes through the Hills; since Archmage Senis accidentally blew up his tower last millenium there's more magic there than anywhere else we know of, and it makes the place warped. You go in, you don't come out. The Deorsi will know all that, either from captured maps or from scrying."

"Scrying, right. Going to have to do something about that; single biggest thing we need to deny them is intelligence," I told myself, thinking out loud. I tumbled some ideas around for a minute, but felt them scattering as they always did.

"I'm not good at working things out in my head; can't keep it all straight, I need something to write on. Better yet, a computer, but I'm pretty sure you don't have Apple stores here."

Thomas kept his mouth shut; by now he had caught on to my weird references enough to realize that I wasn't talking about produce vendors.

I riffled through the Brainopedia looking for something that would work in lieu of electronics. Surprisingly, I found it. And by now I was far too caught up in the problem to remember that I had been planning to go to bed.

"Let's see...we're going to need some staff for this. Could you ask someone to send in half a dozen couriers, two or three scribes, and Archmage Reynard? Also, I need to know how many casters or magic items we have available that can produce Wall of Iron, Teleport, and any of the various flight-related spells. Also, the Dedicated Wright construct. Oh, and ask Suze to send in enough food for everyone."

I was expecting him to get up and go to the door but instead he just tapped a stud on his steel bracer and said "Sending to Archmage Reynard: Please return. Bring six couriers, three scribes, count on available Wall of Iron, Dedicated Wright, Teleport, all Fly spells. Suze to bring food for all." Immediately, a sparrow made out of gray smoke popped out of the bracer and flew off through the wall. A few seconds later the sparrow flew back in and hovered in front of Thomas, speaking in Reynad's voice: "Message received, all sendings dispatched, on my way. ETA 5 minutes. Re message: Nice counting."

Well of course. What else would a magical society use for telephones other than tape-recorder ghost birds? How silly of me to be surprised.

I paused to narf some food from the tray that Suze had brought in earlier. The cider was lukewarm by now but still delicious. The cheeses were amazing—a blue so sharp it gave my tongue a papercut, a creamy and nutty goat cheese, and so on. There was only one I didn't like, a crumbly semisoft cheese with a barnyardy flavor that I wanted nothing to do with. The pie was as delicious as most of the cheeses—a buttery, flaky shell wrapped around gently spiced lamb so tender it shredded when you looked at it, a rich sauce made with plenty of wine, lots and lots of different vegetables, and a thick garlic mashed potato crust on top. Heaven. At my invitation Thomas dug in to the food as well; he seemed to agree with my assessment, as he wolfed a big slice of the pie and several bits of cheese and fruit, but avoided the barnyardy one.

Before Thomas and I had finished with our gustatory bliss, Reynard walked in, followed only moments later by a series of fit young men who were clearly couriers and three slightly tubby middle-aged men who were clearly scribes. All of the couriers and scribes arrived at a dead run, which I found disconcerting; I still couldn't get used to the attitude these people had towards me. It was nuts—I was just a middle-aged programmer, not a divine being.

Reynard settled in one of the two remaining armchairs near the fireplace with Thomas and me, while the minions (I couldn't help thinking of them that way, given their attitude) took a bench against the wall and waited quietly, the scribes with pens poised.

By the time everyone was in place, Suze and three other maids were bringing in multiple big trays of food and several small tables to put it all on. They gave us a new pitcher of hot cider, refilled our platter, made sure the minions were well provided for, and swept out quickly.

I turned to Reynard, shifting tracks. "Ok, Reynard, first thing I need is a computer to keep track of everything. And, given where we are, it might as well be a cool Tony Stark / Iron Man holographic-style interface that lets me gesture dramatically to do ridiculously simple things. _Major Image_ should do nicely, if you wouldn't mind."

He smiled again, graciously accepting his clear victory in the oh-so-very-subtle 'Yeah, I downloaded stuff to your brain, got a problem with that?' battle. "Absolutely, M'Lord." A twiddle of the fingers, a soft mumble, and a bit of burned fleece later, we were in business.

It's a little weird having one of the three most powerful physics-breakers in the country as your own personal JARVIS, but damn if it wasn't cool. And I figured it was the least Reynard owed me for messing with my mind.


	3. Planning Begins

After a long discussion and many plans proposed by yours truly (pretty much all of which were shot down), we packed it in for the night and I trundled off to bed.

Reynard and Thomas, coming from a world ruled by D&D rules instead of normal biology, needed exactly eight hours of sleep to function effectively. I was used to sleeping seven, and could get by on five or six for a couple of nights. Which didn't matter in the slightest, since I got no sleep at all that night; I was on the edge of freaking out completely at the situation I was in.

Seriously? I was supposed to rule a nation? Plan a defense against a powerful army when skilled generals saw no hope? What the hell? This was insane. Even better, they clearly weren't going to let me go, or return me to Earth until my two years were up, so no matter what happened I was going to be there for it.

Then again, when you come to think of it, that was a pretty powerful motivator.

Ok, fine, I was stuck here. Treat it like any project for a really, _really_ bitchy client; I'm good at projects, and at running them. It's what I do. What did I know that could help?

I spent the rest of the night skimming the big compendium of spells in my brain, jotting notes on various ideas, and going over everything I could remember of the D&D rules, every rules break I'd ever discovered or read about, every webcomic, fantasy novel, or blog post that could be helpful. I also talked to Allison for hours, getting her read on all the main people involved in the government.

She gave me the same info that Thomas had, but with a different slant and different details. The ruler (me), could use whatever title he wanted; in the last twenty years, Flobovia had had an Emperor, a Raj, a Sultan, a Poobah, a Boss, a Throk, a President, another Emperor, a Khan, a Chief Widgeteer...and now me. Below me were six Dukes, about twenty Counts, several score Baronets, and a couple hundred minor knights, lords, and so on. She was less clear on how many citizens there were, but she knew it was a lot.

And I got the answer to a minor but nagging point: why was there an Imperial Justiciar system, a Royal Forest, and so on, all with different titles? Simple; they were named according to the ruler that created them. Duh. Should have seen that one.

It was a lot to soak in, but by the morning, I had gotten it mostly straight, and had figured a few things out...one of which was that I felt utterly vile from lack of sleep.

Fortunately, it turns out that being the ruler of a fantasy kingdom has a few perks, showers being one of them. (Which answered my question from the previous day.)

It was a pretty clever system, actually. The walls and floor of the shower were kept slightly warm by way of heat from a chimney that ran up the outside of one wall. The water flow was constant instead of being something that you turned on or off; when I asked later, I was told that the showerhead was a magic item containing a permanent two-inch-wide gate to the Elemental Plane of Water. When I stepped in, I discovered that the Elemental Plane of Water should really be called the Elemental Plane of Holy-Crap-That's-Cold. I yelped and jumped out, my lips already going blue.

A snicker came from across the room. Looking, I saw the flames on one of the torches positively chortling.

"Allison?!" I yelped again, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my waist. "Hey, a little privacy, please?"

"Hey, I'm happy to go if you want, O Ye of the Rapidly Shrinking Manparts. But I don't think you're gonna like your shower very much if I do."

I wasn't going to take that grief, so I immediately skewered her on my rapier wit. "Uhhh...what?" Hey, cut me some slack, I was up all night and hadn't had a shower.

"Look, it's simple. There's three options: I sit on the pipe and heat the water up so you can get in there without your man-grapes actually retreating back inside your body, or you take a freezing cold shower, or you have the servants haul hot water and a tub up to you, which will take about an hour. Your call; it's all the same to me."

I just stared at her.

She snickered. "Don't worry, I've been doing this for five hundred years; you ain't got nothing I haven't seen before. And my binding prevents me yapping about the size of your...feet."

I really had to weigh my practical desire to be clean and awake against my desire to not be emarrassed by a snarky elemental seeing me naked. I took an internal vote and it narrowly came up in favor of 'practical'. 'Embarrassment' demanded a recount, but I told it to shut up.

"Thank you, Allison, I'd really appreciate it. Just...could you go easy on the jokes? I've already had a long week, and it's only my second day."

And so I got a deliciously hot shower while an intelligent campfire teased me about my thinning hair and reminded me to wash behind my ears. What a weird world.

A few hours later, I was feeling much better; clean, refreshed, and dressed in an elegant velvet outfit that had been laid out for me when I came out of the shower. There was even a valet to help me get it on, which proved to be a good thing since the way it all fit together was baffling. (Fortunately, codpieces had gone out of vogue six months earlier, or I would have pitched a fit.)

I'd had a light breakfast and now we were out in the city. There was no specific plan or destination, I just needed to see what was out there. I thought it might give me some ideas, and I wanted a better sense of what this place was like. The idea of me wandering around on foot in the crowds gave Thomas apoplexy, but he dealt with it. I wanted to bring one or two of the Landguard along to serve as guides. Thomas wanted to send eight as close-in protection, with twenty more sweeping nearby rooftops and higher-level rooms for potential sniper nests. We argued about it and it turned out that this was one of the very few grey areas where his various oaths left him unsure where his duty lay. In the end though, I bargained him down to no long range protectors and only four close-in ones.

Of course, these four looked like about twelve; they were absolutely huge men carrying a variety of oversized weapons and generally looking like they could win the Superbowl all on their own...without passing the ball or moving faster than a walk.

"M'Lord, I'd like to introduce you to Sergeant Robert Greenlake, Healer Specialist Rob Davidson, Mage Specialist Bob Guardson, and Guardian-First Aerith. They'll escort you for the day and serve as guides wherever you want to go. If there's something in particular you'd like to see, ask them and they'll know where to find it."

I squinted at him, suspiciously. "So...Robert, Rob, Bob, and Aerith?"

He nodded without so much as a twinkle in his eye. "Yes, M'Lord."

I just shook my head. "Right, of course. Alas, poor sanity, we hardly knew ye. Come on, let's go."

I know it's a cliché but...the city was a place of wonders. Buildings as high as eight levels (astounding for a medieval technology level) and a few towers that went much higher; those were mostly for wizards, astronomers, and other eccentrics. Most of the streets were absolutely pristine—none of the manure and dirt that I had expected to see. People riding magic carpets, flying on broomsticks, pegasi, ornithopters, and even stranger things; a few people were flying with no visible support at all. Incredible art everywhere; we passed fifteen large murals before I stopped counting, many of the street signs were oil paintings in small glass boxes, or elaborate metalwork, and even the poorest building had some sort of gargoyle, scrollwork, engraving, or mural. People of what seemed like a hundred races went past, just going about their business. Many of them were races I was familiar with—elves, dwarves, halflings, some half-breeds—but many were completely unfamiliar; the eight-foot bipedal scaly types with the huge yellow snake eyes and four-inch talons on hands and feet, the furry five-foot-high starfish creatures who were so shaggy it was hard to make out any details, the two-torsoed centauroids, the torsoes facing in opposite directions but each with an excessively long, flexible neck that would allow them to turn to face each other, and dozens of other species.

The buildings, like the inhabitants, came in a bewildering variety of styles; large silk pavilions existed right next to multi-level wood buildings that would have looked perfectly sensible in any rural American town. Every possible building material was being used somewhere: terracotta, metal, stone, wood, cotton, silk—even diamond and (apparently) actual forcefields. Some of the last were transparent, some were opaque; watching the inhabitants of the transparent ones cook, read, and even undress was more than a bit weird.

"What's that thing?" I asked, pointing at a tiny blue wooden building, no more than four feet square and seven feet high.

Bob looked where I was pointing. "Dimensionally expanded apartment—nice digs but not cheap," he said with a hint of envy in his voice.

I smiled very slightly. "So...it's bigger on the inside?"

He nodded. "All the richest folks want them. It's about the best security you can get, and if you want more space you just hire a mage to come in and push the spell out a bit."

"Makes sense," I responded distractedly. I was looking around at the number of people on the street with us and it was simply astounding—probably as high as modern New York.

"How big is Capital City, anyway?" That was still the stupidest name for a city ever. Then again, I suppose that back in the real world we named a major city 'Oxford' just because it was next to a place in the river where bovines could go wading.

Bob was right on the edge of gushing. "It's about three miles wide and eight miles long, and according to the last census we had just crossed the million-person threshold."

"Fascinating reading, the census," commented Aerith with a butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth tone.

"Very true," agreed Robert soberly. "Important document for a bodyguard to be familiar with. You never know when a rampaging demographic will leap out from a dark alley."

I laughed with them. Jokes aside though, I couldn't get over the population density; I couldn't be sure, but it looked like it was about as high as Manhattan. In the middle of a feudal society how did they grow enough food, or produce enough goods?! Ok, sure, magic had to figure in heavily, but I hadn't expected there to be _that_ many mages and magic items kicking around.

As we kept walking I periodically stopped to examine various things chosen nearly at random. We walked into a tailor shop to find the tailor filling out some paperwork—probably the bill of sale—while an animated tape measure marked off all the relevant dimensions of the customer and a floating scissors cut up cloth to be sewn by several animated needles. An elegant worsted wool suit flowed into existence behind the needles.

A blacksmith had a stone kettle which served as his forge; instead of needing a fire and bellows, he simply placed a piece of metal in the kettle where it rapidly started to glow red, yellow, and finally white hot. Throughout the process, the kettle stayed—quite literally—stone cold.

The streets were lined with lightpoles inside which thousands upon thousands of tiny sparks floated slowly. Looking closer, I realized that they were produced by tiny flying jellyfish no larger than my thumbnail. Their bodies were hard to see as they were almost perfectly clear, but their tentacles shifted wildly through an array of colors which ended with a tiny flash of light.

We passed a fountain with water that appeared from midair as a downward-facing jet twenty feet in the air, fell two feet, and then forked into gentle rain pouring down into a marble catchment. Not a single drop escaped the catchment, although when I reached in, I was able to scoop some up in my hand and bring it out with perfect ease; it was as pure and cold as glacier melt water. The catchment itself was covered with elaborate carvings of fauns, nymphs, and woodland creatures done in such detail that I kept waiting for them to blink. It had no drain, yet only contained about a foot of water no matter how much fell.

Around the next corner we passed a temple; under an awning outside were a group of clerics standing in front of a long line of raggedly-dressed people. They were offering food to everyone in the line, and healing to those with significant wounds or diseases. Minor wounds or sniffles were treated with basic first aid, more serious things with magic. Inside the temple, I could hear young voices singing what was clearly an 'ABC...' song. As we wandered through the city, I realized that there were temples to a variety of gods, and that every single one had an aid and teaching effort in place.

Continuing on, we came to a giant silk pavillion with its flap tied open. Outside the "door" a heron made of silver metal perched on one leg singing a crystalline love song. Beside it stood a young brunette talking to a passing man. As he walked by, the woman looked sad for a moment until she noticed me and my guards. Suddenly a smile lit up her face and her entire appearance shifted, flowing into a dusky-skinned Queen of India with long night-black hair to her waist, elegant cheekbones and eyes you could drown in. She was so beautiful she might have stepped right out of one of my dreams. She wore a close-fitted dress of sheer black silk that flowed down her body like rainwater, falling to her ankles and slit to the hip to show tantalizing flashes of caramel leg.

"Won't you come in, good sir?" she purred to me in a throaty murmur. "Robin Yellowlake is the finest clothier in all Flobovia, with hand-made clothing fit for the ruler himself. You look so very handsome in your current apparel, good sir, but it doesn't flatter you the way a Robin Yellowlake original would; you could be so much more fetching in garb designed to enhance your powerful aspect. I can just picture you in a tunic of blue samite," she smiled and shivered in delight. "The ladies would be lining up at your door, good sir, with myself at the head of the line. Or perhaps—"

Bob touched me on the arm. "Come away, M'Lord. It's a standard advertising phatasm; it has a very slight hypnotic effect that forms itself to the precise tastes of the viewer."

I blushed fiercely and turned away, hurrying on and praying that my escort had not seen or heard what I had seen and heard; it was far too embarrassing.

As we wandered on through the city, I noticed a pattern; there was magic everywhere and very little of it repeated, although there was a lot of overlap. Coopers, tailors, smiths, haberdashers, potters - all had some mage-crafted way to produce goods faster, yet the precise means varied wildly.

When I asked about this, Robert responded "Artificer mages have never been common, M'Lord, but Flobovia has been around a long time; magic items accumulate and useful ones get passed down through families."

I nodded understanding and, having seen enough, turned back towards the castle. The guards shifted at the same time, smoothly maintaining their diamond formation around me.

Two hours later, I was back sitting in the sitting room (was there a standing room?), which had become my de facto war room. We had a system going; I sat in my chair by the fire while some poor schmuck who happened to be a sixth-level wizard cast Major Image and kept it running, constantly updating it based on my verbal commands and physical actions. It made a fantastic map table / whiteboard (and it was still a total blast playing Tony Stark with the little hologram widgets). A line of couriers sat around being very, very quiet. Scribes furiously copied down everything I said, each assigned to various tasks such as "copy the whiteboard" or "write the orders the couriers will carry." It bordered on creepy but also kinda appealed to the side of me that had always secretly thought being a minion-employing Evil Overlord would be fun.

If I had an idea, I turned to Thomas or Reynard to see if it would work—the vast majority of my ideas didn't. If there was some key fact that none of us knew, a Sending would be dispatched or one of the couriers would go sprinting off to get the answer. The answer would arrive a few minutes or an hour later, and some scribe would remind me of why I'd been asking about this so I could finish the thought.

First off, my idea for hitting the Deorsi in their logistics and letting them starve was DOA. When I proposed it, Thomas and Reynard pointed out—in much more diplomatic terms of course—that it was a braindead idea, since the Deorsi weren't far enough away to starve before they got to us. Furthermore, even if they were far enough away, they would simply raid the stored food of Flobovia to make up their lack, leaving our people to starve.

That'll teach me not to slavishly copy Flint's Belisarius without thinking it through. (Although I did find myself wondering what a matchup between Thomas and Valentinian would have looked like.)

There were some things that worked, though. It was obvious that our wizards were going to be the best source of game breakers to defeat the militarily superior Deorsi, so I issued orders that every single wizard in the country was summoned to the capital...only to discover that this had been put into effect a few months ago, with only a few holdouts remaining in their towers. I put some oomph behind it, stating that any wizard who had not reported to the capital and checked in with the Landguard within the next three days would be forever denied access to the Capital City Library. Since that library was the primary repository of magical knowledge in the country, that was a pretty heavy threat. As the carrot to go with the stick, I added that any wizard coming to the city and accepting a geas to serve for the duration of the war would be allowed to copy any and all known spells from the Library or from the spellbooks of other wizards.

Reynard warned me that this mandatory spell sharing would make a lot of wizards unhappy, as their income depended on selling spell information. I told him I really didn't care.

My second set of orders was for the purchase of several warehouses in the city. Crime being what it was, warehouses were built like fortresses—no windows, only one door and that was usually iron. Once we sent a few dozen clerics around to cast some Continual Flame spells as lighting, they made pefect training arenas.

As soon as the first arena was ready, I would start cycling mages through in groups: one group would use Monster Summoning spells to produce creatures that the other group would fight in order to gain experience. Even with low Challenge Rating numbers, our wizards would level fast—probably multiple times a day. Of course, that was only possible because we would cheat; the summoner has control of the summoned creatures, and could order them to stop fighting for a couple rounds while the trainees got some free hits in, or to stop completely if the trainees were in danger of dying. By staggering the sleeping shifts and having clerics on hand to heal the wounded, we would be able to keep the training going 24 hours a day.

As other arenas came online, we would start training people other than wizards, focusing first on clerics and finally on anyone who could swing a sword.

Of course, all that was part of my shinging vision for the future; for now, all that was happening was the first warehouse was being bought or commandeered—I told them I didn't care which, as long as we had it within the next four hours.

With the arena plan done I crossed my fingers and found a wizard who had created a Dedicated Wright. I needed to verify that it worked the way my Brainopedia said—I could not afford to be wrong on this. Dedicated Wright was a fascinating spell—it produced a fat little cat-sized homunculus made out of clay, designed to be left at home working on magic items for its master while said master went off and killed non-human people and stole their stuff. The Wright had two nifty properties: first, creating one involved casting an Arcane Eye on it which allowed the owner to see through its eyes at any range. The intent was to allow the owner to verify the progress on an item, but I had some other uses in mind.

The other shiny thing about the Wrights was even shinier: by concentrating, a wizard could make a Wright move around slowly or take basic actions other than crafting magic items—nothing fancy, just simple things like "go over there", or "pick that up". This simple little loophole was the absolute gamebreaker I'd been looking for. When I learned that I was right about the Wright, I actually yelled "Woohoo!" and fistpumped. "We've got'em now," I muttered. "Gonna make Niven's foot fall right on those schmucks, oh yeah." I snickered at my own pun.

People stared at me very strangely. For a very long time.

Once I had gotten past my elation, I told Thomas to round up every Dedicated Wright that could be found and to bring the Wrights and their mages directly to the castle via teleport.

While waiting for the mages to arrive, I turned to production capacity. It was clear from what I'd seen in the city that Flobovia had no concept of industrialization, although magic duplicated many of the labor-saving benefits of technology. They used Sending spells as telephones, scrying spells as TVs, bound fire elementals as incinerators, bound earth elementals as forklifts, Continual Flame spells as light bulbs, and so on. Despite all that, there was no way to produce huge piles of stuff, and I needed to fix that; I needed a LOT of big stuff, and even more bits and bobs.

Fortunately, I read The Order of the Stick, and I remembered Elan's primary use (aside from comic relief): his Inspire Competence songs. "Ok, we're going to need to up our crafting capacity. Here we go," I drew in mid air, glowing blue lines following my fingers. "Build a multi-level tower 60'x60'x60' with lattice flooring. Put a crafter and his equipment in the center. Pack the rest of it with a few hundred bards and have them use Inspire Competence on the craft check; they're all within 30' of him and he can see and hear them all, so he'll get a ridiculous bonus. That should let us crank stuff out in a few minutes. Set up a few dozen of these, and we should be able to make hundreds of thousands of crossbow bolts a day, thousands of suits of armor, and so on."

Having just moved an entire nation into its Industrial Revoltion without the pollution, I took a moment to pat myself on the back. Then, feeling smug, I started to move on to the next problem...when I heard a slight noise behind me. I shot a glance over my shoulder and saw one of the scribes looking uncomfortable.

"Yes?" I asked him. I tried not to sound impatient, but my thoughts were already elsewhere.

"My Lord, I wouldn't presume—"

I frowned slightly and turned to face him properly. "Spit it out," I told him firmly.

He gulped, looking like a man about to be hanged. "Ah, My Lord, the tower...while an excellent idea, I regret to say it won't perform quite to your expectations."

Now I was really impatient; sucking up annoyed me, as did distractions. I forced myself to sit on the feeling and smooth my affect out; there was clearly an issue here, and terrifying the poor guy wouldn't help.

"It's ok, don't worry. If it's not going to work, I need to know; I would much rather be told that I'm wrong than have us waste time and resources. So what's the problem?"

He gulped, obviously feeling very uncomfortable at having every eye in the room pinned on him. Gamely, he gathered himself up and started sketching numbers on his scroll before turning it to show me. "If we maximize the bonus, and therefore production capacity, of your tower, M'Lord, it would have ten levels, each six feet high. Give each bard nine square feet, leave aisles three feet wide between rows so they can get to their chairs, leave out space for the crafter and his equipment, and you could pack in just under 18,000 bards, for a total bonus of about +36,000. Simplifying the math a bit and assuming the craftsman takes the voluntary DC increase of 10 to his check, this would let you make a suit of chainmail in about 12 minutes, which is astounding. But, M'Lord, people with class levels are rare—there probably aren't 18,000 third level bards in the nation, and certainly not the several dozen times more that would be needed to set up all the facilities you describe."

I just stared at him, gobsmacked, as all my plans for equipping the army went up in smoke.

How the hell did these people fight wars? They couldn't make enough stuff to outfit an army!

"How the hell do you people fight wars? You can't make enough stuff to outfit an army!" I yelped to Thomas.

He looked completely baffled again—as usual. I was getting tired of that look; it meant I had tripped over some weird quirk of the so-called "physics" of this universe.

"We simply buy the equipment in the market," he said, in much the same tone that one might say "This is water. It's wet."

I gobbled. "But, you can't—not enough production—economics don't—supply and demand-"

"M'Lord," he said, using the more formal title here in public. "I assure you, we simply buy it in the marketplace. Of course, some places don't have particular goods for sale, which I've always found odd, but if it's there, you can buy what you need."

I wasn't willing to concede the point yet. "But dumping all that money into an economy would cause inflation and drive prices up! And any merchant must have a finite stock!"

"How does spending money relate to adding air to a bladder, or to changing prices, M'Lord? Merchants well...respectfully Lord, if they have a particular item then you can buy as much as you need. Isn't that how it works in your dimension?"

Aside from Thomas, who was his usual stoic self, and Reynard, who was obviously snickering in his beard, everyone in the room was staring at me uncomfortably as if I were a crazy person who might or might not be dangerous.

Finally, I just picked up my jaw and forced my brain back into gear.

"Fine," I said tiredly. "It's utterly insane and whoever designed this economic system should be shot, but whatever. I assume that selling works the same way—I can sell as much as I want of whatever I want, all without affecting prices?"

"Of course, M'Lord," Thomas said with a carefully neutral tone.

"Fine," I said again. "What's iron worth?" One of the scribes timidly answered "One silver piece per pound, M'Lord."

"Lovely. Reynard, when you cast Wall of Iron, how much iron do you get?"

"One 5'x5' square per level, each one inch thick per four levels. My casting gets 18 squares, each four inches thick," he answered immediately. "Which works out to 73,650 pounds of iron—I've done the math before, Lord. Oh, and it costs 50 gold pieces to cast." He was outright grinning now, obviously knowing where I was going.

"Lovely. That's roughly seven thousand gold pieces of economically insane profit for every Wall. Lower level mages make less profit but who cares. Get every mage who can cast it cranking right now, then get the iron to the market, sell it, and start buying gear. I want half again as many sets of equipment as we've got soldiers, so about 30,000 sets total. Each set should include breastplate, buckler, bastard sword, dagger, heavy crossbow, 120 bolts, plus sundries; clothes, tent, that sort of thing. Talk to one of the sergeants in the Landguard, get whatever he recommends. You, you, and you—go." Three of the couriers sprinted off.

I shook my head at the utter insanity of it. Then I moved on.

"How many people in Flobovia?" I asked the scribe who had spoken up before.

"A bit over twenty-eight million as of the last census, M'Lord," he came back promptly.

I blinked. I'd been expecting a much lower number; clearly, Flobovia was doing something right when it came to food production, since I recalled that in D&D a person required "about a pound of food a day."

"How do you grow enough food for...you know what, never mind. I'm sure you just buy the damn food in the marketplace and it magically appears from some damn place without a farmer ever being involved. Probably brought there by friggin' pixies riding on rainbow unicorns."

"Oh no, My Lord. It's brought by elves on griffonback. Much higher cargo capacity than pixies." said Thomas, totally deadpan.

I eyed him narrowly. "Did you just make a joke?"

His eyes twinkled and his mouth twitched just a little. "My Lord! I'm shocked. Everyone knows that paladins are a sober and serious folk."

I tried to glare at him, I really did. But I finally broke down and snorted instead. Reynard, who had done an admirable job of staying straight-faced throughout, nearly busted a gut. When he had it under control again he leaned over to me and stage-whispered "The Commander's deepest secret is that he actually has a sense of humor. Now that you know, feel free to blackmail him!"

I stuck my tongue out at him, then went back to what I'd been thinking about.

"Ok, we're going to set up a commoner railgun. Get a bunch of normal people—no one with class levels, just beggars, homeless, drifters, laborers; anyone with no strong ties who wants to earn some silver. Tell them we'll pay two silver a day. String a line of them, each five feet apart, from here to the nearest point on the Fens, then turn east and run the line along the Fens to the point where the Deorsi are most likely to cross the Maligaw. As the gear comes available, have them pass it down the line. The first person in the line picks up an item as a move action, drops it into the hands of the next person as a free action. Repeat all the way down the chain, and within one round the item is a few hundred miles away at the head of the line."

Reynard was positively gleeful. "Non-magical teleportation, who would have thought of it?"

I shrugged. "Not my idea. I read it on a website. An average person weighs under two hundred pounds, and someone with an average strength can lift two hundred pounds off the ground, so they can shuttle people as well as goods. Also, get trackers into the Fens to find those magic-eating fenfrogs. Cage them, pass them down the line, and stockpile them at the head of the line. Get some apprentice mages down there to keep them fed. When the Deorsi get here, we'll catapult the 'frogs cages into their ranks; if the cages are padded well enough, some of the 'frogs will survive the landing and they'll eat the magic out of all the armor, weapons, and spellcasters in their area."

Most of the people in the room looked impressed; Thomas, of course, was the practical one. "We'll need to feed all these people, and get tents over them at night, of course. And it's going to require a lot of money—you're talking about hundreds of thousands of people at two silver a day. That's about a million gold every five days. Even with your trick with the Wall of Iron, I'm not sure we can afford that."

I shrugged again. "Fine. Somebody get me a list of prices for market goods." One of the scribes hastily shuffled through his stack of resource papers and handed me five sheets of closely spaced print. I studied it for a minute, flipping through the various pages, then pointed at two entries. "Here. Quarterstaves are free, firewood is 1 copper. It doesn't say how much firewood you get for a copper, just "per day." Well, I feel like only having a very small fire for a very short time today, so chop the staves up into tiny little pieces and sell each of them as a separate lot of firewood. Voila, infinite free money, and have I mentioned that your economy is broken? Here's another: a ten foot ladder is five copper; take it apart and you've got two ten foot poles each of which is worth two silver, plus ten rungs which can be sold as firewood for basically infinite money, because sanity is overrated! Oh, here's a good one—musical instruments are five gold. A woodblock is a musical instrument and quarterstaves are still free." I flipped a few more pages before finding another. "Based on weight, a mug of ale is a pint, and it costs four copper. There's eight pints in a gallon, or 3.2 silver, but a gallon of ale only costs 2 silver. Buy ale by the gallon, pour it into mugs, have over 50% profit. Let's see, what else...oh, here we go. A blank spellbook has 100 parchment pages and costs 15 gold. Rip those pages out and suddenly they're worth 20 gold for the parchment, and that's just stupid."

I grimaced in disgust. "Once again, have I mentioned that this economy is fundamentally insane? Anyway, get somebody going on all those options; you're right that we'll need the cash. Take 20% of the profits, set up schools all around the country, and hire scribes and scholars to teach. Spread the word that any literate commoner pays no taxes."

Eyes around the room got wide. Thomas spoke, very evenly, "No taxes at all M'Lord? That will seriously weaken the royal purse. And the nobles will be...distressed, if they suddenly have no tax revenue."

I snorted. "I just gave you five ways to make infinite money, after looking at your price lists for two minutes. I really don't think cutting taxes on the poor is going to be a problem. As to the nobles, give them all an annual grant of twice what they were making from taxes and they'll shut up."

Before I could start thinking of anything else, there was a knock on the door. One of the Landguard at the door opened it to admit a young pageboy right out of a Dutch painting—about twelve, blond hair cut in a bowl job, tunic and all.

"If it please you, M'Lord, the Conclave inquires if you would care to join them for the afternoon meal?" he piped.

A quick flash of guilt, and not a little worry, hit me. Yeah, it might have been a good idea to schedule a meeting with my council of advisors who happened to be some of the most influential people in the country. I hoped that they weren't too pissed at having been ignored until now.

"That sounds like an excellent idea. I am quite hungry." I rose and turned to the scribes. "Please make sure you have everything copied off the display, and then take a break for the afternoon. I suspect I'll be busy with the Conclave for a while. I'll call you when I want to start up again."

They bowed in acknowledgement and went back to hastily scribbling on their scrolls. I left the room, Thomas and Reynard flanking me and the six Landguard bracketing us, three in front and three behind.

"Is this level of protection /really/ necessary, Thomas? We're in the capital city, in the ruler's castle, surrounded by defenses and guards. The Deorsi are hundreds of miles away. What's going to suddenly leap around the corner and try to kill me, a ninja rat armed with a splinter?"

"Oh, not a rat, I think. A chicken, perhaps. Very dangerous creatures, chickens," Thomas responded, completely straight-faced. "In seriousness, though; this protection is absolutely necessary, M'Lord. We are at war; the enemy would love nothing better than to assassinate you. The Landguard is sworn to keep the ruler alive, and in our eight hundred years of existence we have never failed in that duty."

I shrugged, having already learned the futility of trying to get between Thomas and his oath. I had a feeling that this was also a subtle tweak for giving him such a hard time about the small size of the protective detail I had insisted on this morning. Instead I turned to Reynard as we continued along the corridor.

"Dedicated Wright—you can see through its eyes at any distance, right? Can you read a scroll through them?"

He look startled. "I'm...not sure. It's not the sort of thing anyone normally does with a creature that's sitting alone at home."

I grimaced; it would have been really convenient if he knew that offhand. "Feh. Ok, well, we'll find out. Thomas, could you please use that nifty gauntlet of yours to have someone go talk to one of those mages who has a Dedicated Wright. I want to know if it's possible to read a scroll through the eyes of his Wright when he can't see the scroll himself."

Thomas nodded, stone-faced, and sent one of his smoke-sparrows off to try the experiment.

As the thing left, we arrived at our destination; an open air atrium inside the castle filled with elegant gardens and a marble terrace. Waiting at a table spread with a linen tablecloth and laden down with food were six richly dressed men and two empty chairs. The men rose to their feet as we entered. Looking at their faces, I recognized Archmage Isaac; from his stiff expression, it was clear that he was pissed. The rest were completely unreadable, but none of them were looking friendly.

Oy, this was not going to be a fun meeting.


	4. Confidence Building

**Author's Note:**

_**Important:**__ First off, this chapter contains some potentially triggering events (a relatively graphic fist fight) and some strong language, although nothing you couldn't say on prime time. _

_Hello readers! It's been exciting to watch my traffic stats and see that people are actually looking at this. Even more exciting, however, would be reviews; they are the food of the muse. Honestly, instead of silence, I'd even rather hear "Well that was horrible. There's twenty minutes of my life I'm never getting back."_

_A note about this chapter: I started writing this story back in May 2013 (it's late September now) and I had twelve chapters written before I posted chapter one. I spent literally months trying to write the Conclave meeting and couldn't, so I'm cheating and timeskipping over it. I'm not happy about it, but there it is. If I ever manage to actually write the dratted thing, I'll post it retroactively and provide a note to that effect in a future Author's Note._

_Meanwhile, thanks for reading!_

_(PS: I don't own D&D. Pity, that.)_

_Edit: Thanks to FredB for my very first set of reviews! You rock, man._

_Fred also pointed out (quite rightly) that I need to be really careful to stick to RAW, since the conceit of this story is to show the places where RAW fails. I haven't played in at least a decade and don't own any of the books, so if I get any of my research wrong please let me know. That said, there are two places where I will be deliberately diverging from RAW: first, Bags of Holding and their ilk track only weight, not volume. Second, falling damage does not cap out. For the reasons why, read my 9/24 response to FredB in the reviews. Ok, on with the story!_

* * *

I was right, it was a miserable meeting. The first hint of trouble was when Lady Justice pointed out that her justiciars needed to be excluded from the draft because otherwise Flobovian civilization would collapse. Lady Shadow responded snidely, saying that surely that was an overstatement. Duke Frederick, representing the peerage, started talking about what he would do with the troops once they were assembled. When Thomas quietly pointed out that I would be in charge, not Frederick, things went nuclear. (I, of course, ended up stuck smack in the middle of that little 'discussion.' Happy happy joy joy, except not.) Things went downhill from there; I was ready to wrap it up even before Duke Frederick started pounding the table and screaming about the madness of letting an untried outlander lead the army—particularly one who "showed as much martial skill as my daughter's pet pig."

By the time I made it back to the sitting room, I was utterly drained. I took up my usual seat by the fire and leaned back with a sigh, closing my eyes.

Blissful, restful silence spread through the room. Allison crackled quietly in the fireplace, and Thomas respected my clear desire to recharge.

"Could you make it a bit warmer please, Allison?" I asked without opening my eyes.

She didn't respond verbally, but the warm glow of the fire got brighter through my eyelids and I could feel the heat beating on my face and soaking into me.

Between the hard meeting and the lack of sleep from last night my energy was at a low ebb, and the desire to just sleep, hopefully to wake up and discover that this was all a bad dream, pulled at me like a riptide. For a moment I started to nod off but I managed to shake out of it; there was an invading army to deal with. I forced my eyes open with a sigh and focused on Thomas.

"Any word on that experiment with the Dedicated Wright and the scroll?" I asked.

He nodded. "I got the message just as we were leaving the Conclave meeting. Worked perfectly; the mage was able to read the scroll through the Wright's eyes just as if he were there."

I smiled tiredly. "Ok, I want as many Dedicated Wrights as we can scrape up; find out how many there are and negotiate with the owners to use them as part of the war effort. Promise them spells, magic items, money—whatever it takes, but get them. Start making more as fast as possible, and expedite it; use magic to keep the workers going 24/7, give them Haste potions to work faster, whatever it takes."

He nodded, dispatched a Sending, and went back to being silent. He didn't look like his usual placid, patient self though.

"Something wrong, Thomas?" I asked.

He paused before he answered, clearly choosing his words carefully. "That meeting seemed...difficult for you, Jake."

I sighed. "Yeah. I don't like confrontational discussions. I find them unproductive. I prefer to discuss things, get to a consensus, and then work together on it."

Again he paused. Again the careful word choice. "Do they leave you feeling...rattled?"

I grimaced uncomfortably. It was one of the things I'd never admitted to anyone—that, way down deep, I was afraid I was a coward. But my sense of basic honesty wouldn't let me answer with anything less than truth. "Yes, they do," I admitted, forcing myself to look him in the face. I could feel my heart speeding up and my hands were cold with stress but my face was flushed with embarrassment.

Thomas paused for a long time, then he looked at the fireplace. "Allison? Give us a moment, please." The words may have been framed politely, but it was clear that 'no' was not an acceptable answer.

For once, even Allison sounded intimidated, but she didn't budge. "Thomas, you know I can't. Not unless he tells me to."

I waved her off without looking away from Thomas. "Go on, Allison. I'll call you if I need you. Please light the candles for us before you go."

Without a word, she flicked from candle to candle, sitting on each wick just long enough to get it burning. Then she was gone without a trace.

Finally having privacy, Thomas leaned forward, elbows on his stared me right in the eye. When he spoke, his voice was soft and intense, and he didn't blink at all.

"Your behavior is not acceptable in a war-time ruler. The existence of this nation is under grave threat and we need a decisive, confident ruler. We need someone with new ideas who can make things happen even against opposition.

"I don't see a way to win this war, Jake. Not against an army that outnumbers us five to one and outpowers us magically as well. None of our other generals see a way either. We can slow them down, yes. Reduce their numbers, absolutely. But we can't _win_ using our own military knowledge and traditions. We need someone from outside that framework, someone who can provide ideas that we haven't had yet. The only person who can possibly do that in the time we have is you.

"You _must_ be able to handle confrontation. When you have an idea that you think will work, you _must_ make it happen, no matter what; even if it fails it might give someone else an idea. Most of all, you need to look confident; the morale of the troops requires it. In that meeting, you looked intimidated and that is the last thing you can be—the Conclave will eat you alive if you show weakness, and the army will not follow a ruler they perceive as weak. Right now, you look as weak as a rotten branch."

He was right; I was clamping down on my breathing and body language, forcing myself to sit calmly and keep a blank face...but my hands were freezing, my palms were sweaty, and I had to swallow.

Thomas wasn't done though. His voice got even more intense; there was nothing left to it now except the primal sound of a hungry wolf. "Understand, Jake; I like you. I think you're a good person, honest, and friendly. You didn't ask to be here, or to have this duty. And none of that matters in the slightest. My duty to the Land comes first and I will follow it; either you fix your attitude or I kill you and take command myself. The nobles will panic if I do, and probably revolt; the Landguard will need to kill all the Dukes and a lot of the Counts in order to get the rest to fall in line, and even then it will cause a major civil war within a few years. And it means the Deorsi will conquer the nation while we're sorting out the power structure. But the Landguard _can_ do it, and I _will_ do it if I have to, because it will let me get some of the population evacuated while I and the Landguard die buying them time."

Finally, he leaned back. The wolf retreated, once again masked behind its human facade. "I'll support you in every way I can. But ultimately, you need to handle this."

My heart was hammering hard enough to burst out of my chest. As discreetly as possible, I pressed my hands onto the chairarms to keep them from visibly shaking. I took a moment to be sure that my voice wouldn't break when I spoke.

"Well, that's certainly...motivating. I'm not sure what specifically I need to do, though. I wish I handled confrontation better; it's something I've wanted for a long time, I just never knew how to fix it."

Thomas grinned exactly the sort of grin that you grin at someone you're about to play a really, really cruel prank on. "I think I have a solution," he said, coming to his feet. "Come with me."

I rose and followed him. I was really, really confident that, wherever we were going, I was not going to enjoy it.

He led me out of the castle and down to the area behind the stables where the horses were exercised. Along the way he dispatched a Sending, but spoke too softly for me to hear the message.

When we arrived, the sun was just touching the horizon and the area was deserted except for a man in Landguard uniform. He was at least twenty years my senior, maybe more. His hair was pure gray, there were more lines in his face than a roadmap, and he looked like he was made out of nothing but dried leather. There wasn't an ounce of fat anywhere on him and my "not gonna like this" meter pegged, then blew out the dial and moved to Florida for a nice comfortable retirement.

Thomas walked up to the other man and nodded briskly. "Sergeant, Jake here has a confidence problem and doesn't know how to solve it. Fix it. Fast." He turned and left without so much as a backwards glance.

The sergeant turned to me, sized me up, then smiled and extended his hand. "I'm Sergeant Duncan, and it's an honor to meet you face-to-face M'Lord. Don't worry, I've helped a lot of men with similar issues."

I smiled back, a bit uncertainly; my 20 ranks in Knowledge Skill (Genre Savvy) had me expecting a 'Full Metal Jacket' replay, but the greeting had been friendly; perhaps this would be more along the line of "inspirational talk and physical training." I reached out to take his hand. "It's a pleasure, Sergeant. Please, call me—"

I was face down in the dirt; my knee was on fire from where the Sergeant had brutally kicked it out from under me. He had one heavy boot on my neck and my arm in a vicious submission lock.

"I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, MAGGOT! SHUT YOUR GODDAMN PIE-HOLE! YOU HAVE A 'CONFIDENCE PROBLEM', DO YOU?! IN THIS TRADE, WE CALL THAT BEING A GUTLESS COWARD! DON'T YOU AGREE, PISS-PANTS?!"

My mouth was full of dirt and I could barely breathe for the pain, but I managed to grunt out "No!" In response he lifted his boot off my neck, kicked me in the side, and then stomped my face back down. This time his boot was on my head, and he actually ground it in, making my ear bleed.

"WHAT WAS THAT MAGGOT?! I COULDN'T HEAR YOU THROUGH ALL THAT WHIMPERING! YOU'RE A PISS-PANTS COWARD, AREN'T YOU?!"

"NO!" I yelled as loudly as I could, which wasn't very. My brain was floundering. I hadn't been in a real fight in my life—even in grade school, it was more pushing and shoving than real hitting. I'd done some martial arts but that wasn't real fighting...and besides, I'd always been too lazy to really pursue it. I had no idea how to process this, how to respond, and my mind was just shutting down.

"FINE THEN, MAGGOT! YOU THINK YOU'VE GOT BALLS?! SHOW ME!" He yanked me to my feet, nearly dislocating my arm in the process. Before I could catch my balance, he landed a straight kick in my gut that sent me sprawling on my ass. Immediately, he was on me, booting me in the face, then yanking me up by my collar and shoving me back again. I stumbled, flailing like an idiot, and this time he let me catch my balance.

"Go on, momma's boy. Feelin' scared, crybaby? Door's over there, so go ahead and run. I won't even try to stop you, you pile of crap, 'cause you're not worth the effort. We all hoped that this time we'd get a _decent_ Lord, someone we could take pride in, someone who could actually pull this off and save the Land. Instead we get you. You and your worthless fat goddamn useless ass. From what the Commander tells me, your supposedly oh-so-brilliant otherwordly ideas are for CRAP, you pathetic quim."

He spit on the ground. "So go on and run. Do us all a favor, you cowardly piss-bucket because it's hot out here, and you're not worth raising a sweat for. Or you can show me you've got some damn balls and take a swing." His face wore a nasty grin; I knew he was going to curbstomp me, and he knew that I knew.

I spat out the dirt, never taking my eyes off him. Blood was gushing from my mouth; both lips were split, and several of my teeth had been knocked right out. My jaw felt like someone was shoving a chainsaw into it, my heart was pounding and I could feel my eyes staring wide. My breath came in fast, shallow pants.

"COME ON, MAGGOT! I AIN'T GOT ALL DAY!" he shouted, waving me forward with one hand.

I shifted into a defensive stance and took a step to the side, looking for an opening.

I was down again, this time clutching my groin. He had kicked me so hard my senses shut down for a moment, the whole world going white and silent.

When it cleared, he was standing back, hands on his hips, laughing uproariously.

I pushed myself to my feet, unable to straighten up but knowing that being down was just going to make the next attack worse.

He didn't attack though, just kept laughing. "God, what a worthless mewling bucket of crap! I've had twelve year olds apply to join the 'Guard who fought better than you, you pathetic asslicker. Are you even ABLE to hit? Jesus Christ on a cracker, boy, you just plain _SUCK_ at this. Tell you what, I'm curious if you've got anything at _all_ in you, so I'll give you a free hit. Won't even move. Take your best shot."

I eyed him, not moving; this couldn't have been a more obvious trap if he'd put out a neon sign. Slowly, I forced my breathing back under control until I could straighten up. My balls still felt like someone had crushed them in a vice, but at least I could move again.

He just waited, smirking at me in contempt.

But he had finally given me the time I needed. I calmed my breathing, forced my shoulders to relax, and felt my mind detach and go cold. Everything still hurt just as much, and I knew exactly what was going to happen—either I wouldn't swing and he'd beat me senseless, or I would, in which case he would block and beat me senseless. Either way, he was going to hurt me badly, then pull me up and start it all over. Despite all that, I was calm. I knew that, once this crisis was over, I was going to have the mother of all freakouts but for right now, I was ok.

I'd had this feeling plenty of times before; it usually happened in crowds, like the few concerts and dance clubs I'd been to—basically, anywhere that mobs of people were having a great time with a shared, emotionally charged experience. I could never let myself participate. I was always separate, watching, wishing I could be part of the excitement but unable to submerge myself in the mob. When it happened like that, it was a lonely and miserable experience...but it also happened whenever there was a crisis and then it was a blessing; I was calm in the middle of the crisis, saving my shakes for afterwards.

Pulling the calm in deliberately meant that it didn't fit quite right, and that lack of fit made it fragile...but it was much better. At least I could think again.

The smirk had finally faded from his face, to be replaced by a frown of anger and contempt. "Come on, mouse dick. Either you take that shot right the hell now or I swear by the Land, I will kick your goddamn head in and call it a day. I am not in the mood for dealing with some piss-drinking coward when there is a perfectly good card game waiting for me back at the barracks. Take. Your. Shot." He adopted an 'at ease' position, legs shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind him...but his eyes were still on me and he still had a look of raw contempt on his face.

I knew he meant the part about kicking my head in, so I moved forward, watching for the inevitable attack. As I approached, I evaluated where to hit (not that it would land)—the throat could be lethal, and I was feeling ok about that; it was probably the only way I was going to come out of this not in traction. A kick to the belly would keep slightly more range open but wouldn't do enough damage to stop him. A kick to the knee might slow him down afterwards. A shot to the head seemed like a generally good choice too.

I decided I couldn't bring myself to actually kill him, so instead I stepped in close and slammed a hammerfist into the side of his head, pivoting from the hips to generate power like I'd been taught. I knew, _knew_ that he was going to duck it and smash me again, but I had nothing to lose so I swung for the fences.

He actually stood there and let it land.

It wasn't a bad hit, either; a bit off target, it hit just above his ear instead of on the disabling temple or mastoid bone, but it knocked him off his feet. He rolled smoothly and came back up, staggering just slightly as he caught his balance. Checking to make sure I wasn't following up, he shook his head to settle it, then touched the side the side of his head.

"Not bad, maggot," he said, with just the tiniest hint of respect. "Solid hit; you've got some training. Not much, and you're obviously too fat and lazy to stick with it, but you've got some. 'Course, you should have gone after me while I was down, because now I'm going to kick your damn teeth in."

I knew that he was just trying to rattle me. Yes, I was a bit lazier than I thought I should be, but I wasn't a complete couch potato either. Yes, I had a spare tire from working a desk job, but I was fitter than most Americans. Safe in my detachment, the words just rolled off like rain off a roof.

"Well, back to it, then," he said gleefully. Then he was coming in again, but not as fast this time. Maybe the blow to the head had scrambled him a little, because I saw through the feint with the left hand, and he telegraphed the uppercut with his right. I stepped around it and went for a kotegaishi wrist throw. It had always been my single best aikido move; if I was going to bet on any technique, it would be this one.

I got his wrist, made the initial turn, pulling him around with me. For once, my technique was flawless: I took exactly the right grip on exactly the right part of his hand and pivoted my entire body as one seamless unit with our hands right in front of my power center. He was whipped around the outside of the spin, off balance and trying to catch up to himself. I brought my other hand up, folded his fingers back, shifted my left foot back as I started the actual throw. It would either slam him hard into the ground or break his arm, depending on how he took the fall. I was fine with either outcome.

I was face down in the dirt again. He was kneeling on my neck, both my arms yanked up behind me. I had no idea what had just happened.

"Not bad, kid. You saw the punch when I hung it out there and you didn't panic. Granted, first time I saw that throw you were probably still in diapers...but not bad. So, what did you learn here?"

Agony was lancing through my shoulders but a part of me was still cold, still detached.

"That I can be calm in a fight," I grunted.

"What did you learn?" he demanded, pulling my arms a little higher. I hissed in pain.

I scrambled for a better answer; what was he looking for? Whatever it was, I really wanted to figure it out so that he'd let go of my arms. "That...this is what a physical fight is like? What pain is really like, and so a verbal argument just doesn't stack up?"

"Goddamn it you little crap-eater! Stop wasting my goddamn time and tell me what the hell you learned! Or do I need to rip your arms right off your body and beat you with them?!" He yanked my arms significantly higher and I felt something tear.

"I don't know!" I yelped. "I don't know, just let go of my arms and tell me!"

He laughed, but there was honest humor in it. "Well, first thing you should have learned, your Almighty Lordness, is that it's ok to ask for help on a question that you don't know the answer to, or a problem you don't know how to solve—like, for example, improving your confidence. And that the Landguard is the sensible group to ask; it's what we're here for, and we won't betray your secrets. As to this—even the other Landguard aren't going to know about these little sessions of ours. Now, come on M'Lord. Let's get you to the healer."

He let go of my arms, releasing them slowly instead of just dropping them; it prevented them from slamming back down and potentially taking more damage.

One hand under my arm, he brought me back to my feet and braced me for a moment until I was steady on my feet again. Then he brushed the worst of the dust off my tunic and started helping me back into the castle.

We were three corridors down before I thought to ask. "What's the second thing?"

"Hmm?" he responded, eyebrows raised.

"You said the first thing I should have learned was to ask for help. If that's the first thing, there must be a second thing. What is it?"

He chuckled. "Oh, that. Second thing is that you should have learned not to mess with me, for I _am_ the baddest son of a bitch in the 'Guard."

I nodded, which sent more blood pouring from my broken jaw. "Oh yeah. Definitely got that part."

o-o-o-o

The Landguard healer didn't bat an eye when the Sergeant escorted me in bruised and battered. He just looked at the Sergeant, looked at me, and gave the slightest twitch of a smile. "I'm terribly sorry you fell down the stairs M'Lord. Very slippery, they can be," he said with a barely-suppressed snicker. I glared at him but it rolled off. I really needed to work on my glares. A despotic ruler should have a better glare. And a white cat. Definitely a white cat.

"Here, let me help you with that," said the Healer, now all business. He laid a hand on each of my shoulders, bowed his head, and whispered a brief prayer. Light flooded into me, gold as honey, warm as a cozy fire. It spilled down his arms and filled me up, seeking out every tiny scrape or scratch and washing it away. I could feel the pain stopping, the bruises fading—even my teeth growing back! Afterwards, I felt as refreshed as if I'd just woken up from the best night's sleep ever.

The healer didn't even wait for my thanks, just patted me on the shoulder and shooed us out the door.

"So, that's it then?" I asked the Sergeant out in the hall. "One good beating and my confidence issue is all dealt with?"

Just for the record? Sergeant Duncan has an incredibly creepy grin, and seeing it now was not a happy-making experience.

"Oh no," he said gleefully. "We're not even close to done, M'Lord. Today was just to teach you a proper appreciation of how seriously you should pay attention during your lessons. Each time, the lesson will continue until you actually fight back in an effective way; eventually, you'll learn to fight back _before_ you get pounded into hamburger. Now, you need to go back to planning strategy, I get that. And that's going to run late, and afterwards you're going to be tired. Which means that will be a _perfect_ time for our next lesson. And when that's done, we'll heal you back up, and start again tomorrow."

I groaned, and his grin just got wider and evil-er. "I don't suppose just telling you that my confidence was all fixed would be enough to get me out of this?" I offered weakly.

I didn't see him move but suddenly he was right up in my face, glaring into my eyes and snarling, spittle flying. "SHUT YOUR TRAP YOU GUTLESS PIECE OF CRAP!" I flinched back, my eyes widening.

And then he relaxed again, with a smile that held just the faintest hint of regret. "You ain't ready yet, M'Lord. By the time I'm done you will respond to abuse with either immediate physical action or relaxed calm. Signs of intimidation just won't do. Don't worry, this ain't my first wolf hunt. I'll get you there, and probably in less time than you think."

I sighed. "Yeah, I know. And I suppose the end of that thought is really 'less time than you think...it just won't be pleasant.'"

He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder before turning to escort me to the official castle War Room (apparently we had outgrown the sitting room). For a moment I found myself wondering why I was only being escorted by one Landguard instead of the usual four or more. Then I snorted; who in their right mind would attack Sergeant Duncan? He'd just shout them to death.


	5. Removing the Brakes

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I am neither G. Gygax nor D. Arneson. Would that I were.

* * *

There were two Landguard flanking the door to the War Room; as we strode up, one of them stepped up to us and reported quickly. "Sir, the Room is pretty full—all of the Archmagi are here, along with Dukes Frederick, Oliver, and Callum. We've also got four Counts, multiple knights and warleaders, the Archpriest and four of his Hierophants, and the Imperial Spymaster; everyone is arguing fit to shake the walls. There's seven of the 'Guard inside, plus the two of us. Orders, Sir?"

I paused, glancing at Duncan. He arched an eyebrow at me and scowled in clear implication of what would happen if I handled this wrong. I nodded, running through the scenarios of what was probably coming.

Finally I sighed and turned to face him fully. "Sergeant," I asked, "the Landguard must have signals, right? 'Danger', 'threat imminent', that sort of thing?"

He nodded decisively. "Sir, yes sir."

It felt indescribably weird—and humbling, and horribly uncomfortable—to hear that answer from a man old enough to be my father who was a better soldier than I could even dream of being. But I gave a flash of a half-smile when I heard the "sir" instead of "M'Lord". Clearly, in his mind, there was a distinction between his war leader and his political ruler, even if they happened to be the same middle-aged schlub.

"Well, here's where we find out if I can do this job," I sighed. "When we walk in, stick close. Let the other Landguard know that a...let's call it a 'stressful situation' might be coming. If it does, I don't want anyone hurt, but I do want the rest of the room contained _immediately_ so that things don't go completely sideways. Got that?"

"Sir, yes sir!" he responded, showing a smile that was really more like baring his teeth.

"Now, clerics here can regenerate broken bones, right? Make them good as new, no lasting damage?"

"Sir, yes sir!" Even more teeth were showing now; a wolf would have envied that set.

I nodded to myself, then took a deep breath. And another. I forced my shoulders to relax, settled my face. Once I was physically relaxed, I reached for that calm detachment and wrapped it around myself like armor. Once it latched itself around my mind I was able to focus down, closing out the other thoughts that were chasing around my head. I focused on my breathing, closed my eyes, and very carefully, one by one, I disengaged the brakes. Concern for others got locked in a box. Manners and courtesy were told to stand in the corner and face the wall—they'd be called if they were useful. Respect for the law (the little that I had, anyway) got sent to its room. Humility was put on a bus to Elsewhereville. Integrity was kept close, but told to shut its mouth about the fussy little details.

All the other restraints and restrictions that make up a personality were set aside one by one. I pulled steel into my backbone and turned myself into someone else, someone who wasn't afraid of anything and wouldn't stop until he achieved his goal.

It sounds like bullcrap, but it actually works. It's not a trick; anyone can do it. Shoot, I did this every time I went for a job interview. It's just a choice you make to temporarily leave behind the parts of yourself that restrain you, and focus solely on one goal with everything that's left. Afterwards, you won't always be comfortable with the actions you take during that time, but it makes you hella effective while you're doing it.

I knew exactly what was going to happen in there, and I ran the scenarios in my head one more time, preparing my response for each. As long as I knew what was coming ahead of time, I would be fine.

Finally ready, I called out Allison's name and walked into the lion's den, waving the two door guards to follow.

Inside was a madhouse, half the people red-faced and bellowing at each other and the rest (the various scribes and couriers, mainly) practically cowering. Since the room was half the size of a basketball court and fairly full, that was a lot of bellowing.

The War Room of Flobovia is spartan; light and heat are provided by Continual Flame torches everywhere and a fireplace on each wall. Three of them were already lit, and the fourth blazed up as I walked in; Allison, loyal to her duty as ever. Along the walls were benches where various couriers, scribes, and secretaries sat awaiting orders.

In the very center of the room the Important People stood around a large table, with their immediate minions in clusters right behind them. Each group was shouting at the others; interestingly, many of the groups were arguing among themselves as well. The main divisions seemed to be along professional lines, warriors vs mages vs clerics with the one person who belonged to none of those groups—an unremarkable woman in brown leathers—standing quietly to the side. The priests were the only ones not arguing among themselves, with the four junior members flanking their superior in a tight wedge.

I paused to study the table for a moment. Heavy, some sort of dark wood (oak?) with landmarks painted on it, suggesting that it had been the main tool for tracking military engagements before I showed up with my Major Image idea. Speaking of which, the Image was not currently in effect although Davis (I had somehow managed to remember the names of the three mages who were assigned to the duty) was sitting in a chair beside the table. He looked like a mouse at a leopard convention; I expected him to dive under the table any minute.

I watched the chaos for a moment then tipped my head to Duncan, indicating the room.

"RULER OF FLOBOVIA, NOW ENTERING!" Duncan's voice, accustomed to cutting across the din of a Landguard training ground, actually echoed off the walls. I had to resist rubbing my ear to make the ringing stop; it wouldn't have looked dignified.

The annoucement did a great job of quieting things down, though. All eyes were riveted on me as I walked up to the table, Duncan stalking beside me and one step behind. As I walked, I flicked my eyes around the room until I located Thomas; he gave me a tiny nod. Whether it meant that he'd seen Duncan's signals and was ready or was just general encouragement, I couldn't say. I really hoped that it was the former.

I stopped at the table, an arm's length from Duke Frederick. Took a breath and considered him.

My weird-ass brain, currently running with no brakes, felt only vague interest and just the slightest hint of pity. Really, what could he do to me? Yes, he could yell and pound his fists and be intimidating. But, really...what could he do? In this room, he had two other Dukes and three Counts who would probably back him. Only four of the six of them were actually warriors; the other two were desk jockey merchant types. There were also about twenty minor warleaders, many of whom were actual warriors—but none of the Dukes, Counts, or their minions were armored or armed with more than a belt knife. I, on the other hand, had ten of the most lethal killers in Flobovia (which was still an intensely stupid name) scattered around the room in full armor and weapons. Plus I was pretty sure that Archmage Reynard, and probably Isaac and Matthew, would back me in a real fight.

I smiled cordially at the man in front of me. "Duke Frederick, thank you for joining us. I'd like to start implementing my strategy tonight or, at latest, tomorrow night. Your input would be much appreciated. Your experience could go a long way towards making this work."

He snorted through his mustache. "_Your_ strategy is it? And what foolishness is that, hmm? Little towers of singers playing the lute at a smith? People standing in lines handing each other things? In a war you need to _attack_, to find the enemy and crush them into dust. Anyone who thinks differently is a fool! But, of course, you wouldn't know about that, would you M'Lord? After all, you've never led men into battle before. Step aside and let the grownups handle the strategy, boy. You can play your little games off to the side while we get the work done."

I had thought through this exact conversation in the hall outside, and that was exactly why I took the brakes off. My normal self, so focused on being likable and not hurting others' feelings, could never have stood up to this man. Other me would have tried and mostly managed, but not well and not easily. Right now, with all the safeties offline? Duke Frederick could paint himself blue and howl like a coyote and I wouldn't have blinked. I really didn't give a damn about this man; honestly, I was kinda looking forward to what was about to happen.

I hadn't known the exact words he would use, of course, but it had been easy enough to figure out the basic theme and to choose how I would respond. The response I had chosen was nothing I would have dreamed of in my own world...but this wasn't my world. Thomas and Duncan were correct—here, I needed to be decisive and dominant more than I needed to be right. It was exactly backwards from what I was used to.

"Duke Frederick," I said, speaking calmly and slowly. My voice had gotten even softer and my smile was wider; people who knew me well would have recognized that as a bad sign, but no one here knew me well. "I would appreciate it if you didn't call me a fool. Let me rephrase this for you: the situation is very bad, I would like your support, but I am in charge and, quite simply, you don't get a vote. Now, we don't have time to fight amongst ourselves; if you can accept my leadership, let's get to it. If not, step down from your position. Your heir can run your estates and after the war you will be fully reinstated with my thanks and a reward for your good judgement. But you need to choose right now, and you need to stick with your choice."

By the end of my speech, he was beet red and had stepped closer to loom over me. "You dare?!" he shouted at the top of his remarkably effective lungs. "Who the hell do you think you are to suggest I step down? I've ruled the Edolian Duchy since you were in short pants, you snot-nosed pup! Wipe the wet from your ears, boy! Two days in this world and you think that just because some poncy courtiers tell you you're our great savior that you can actually take Edolia from _me_?"

My eyes were dry and I felt the urge to blink, but I never broke eye contact with the Duke. "Sergeant, crush his hand."

Frederick was a trained warrior with excellent reflexes, but he was no match for Duncan's inhuman speed. Frederick started to spin into a fighting crouch and draw on Duncan, but before he had finished turning halfway, the grizzled veteran was on him. Duncan's hand closed on the Duke's right wrist like a vice and slammed it down on the table. A moment later the pommel of a dagger crashed into the back of the Duke's hand like a thunderbolt, smashing the bones to fragments.

When I looked up, the Landguard had moved. Three stood behind the Archmagi, bare steel in their hands; not directly threatening, but entirely clear about what would happen in the event of spellcasting. Two more of the 'Guard stood on opposite sides of the clerics, blades drawn and ready. Three more encircled the Counts and minor military types, while Thomas watched the entire room, weight on the balls of his feet and three feet of naked blade in each hand. Seeing them all shift from place to place between two glances reminded me of the Weeping Angels, far and away the most terrifying movie or TV monsters I'd ever seen.

Frederick clutched his shattered hand and screamed in surprise and pain, sagging almost to his knees before struggling back up, sobbing. Awkwardly, he tried to fumble his knife out of its sheath with his left hand.

I spoke very calmly. "Duncan, let him sit down. If he moves or makes a sound before I say otherwise, kill him." The Sergeant nodded with a wolfish grin and slammed the Duke to the floor before flipping his dagger around and resting it against the Duke's throat. His other fist latched onto the Duke's hair to hold him steady. Duke Frederick froze like a statue, glaring at me in rage.

I looked around the room, eyeing each of the major players in turn. You could have heard a pin drop.

"Gentlemen," I said calmly, facing the Counts and Dukes. "I was torn away from my family, my friends, and my life. I was brought here against my will to do a job I didn't want, at a time when you face an overwhelming enemy. An enemy that, if they win, will make it a particular point to kill me personally. I dislike a great deal of what I've heard about your kindgom—just for starters, I find debt peonage abhorrent, and feudalism is an unbelievably bad way to run a country. The key point here is that I owe you all _nothing_."

I stopped and turned, sweeping my eyes slowly over everyone there. "There is absolutely no reason for me to stay here. The smart thing for me to do is walk away and leave you all to burn. But. For whatever reason, I am going to do my level best to save you. But I am done with bickering, with being treated like a child, and with my orders being questioned. From now on, anyone who gets in my way or interferes with my plans will be immediately stripped of their rank and half their lands and wealth will be taken for the throne. Do we understand each other?" There were murmurs of assent—most of them grudging—and jerky nods from most, resentful ones from the rest.

I turned to the Archmagi and waved the Landguard to step back. "Gentlemen, I apologize for having the Landguard threaten you. You're all extremely powerful, and I'm sure you've all had dangerous lives that would make anyone react quickly in surprise situations. I didn't want to take a chance on startling you into accidentally flash-frying everyone in the room." I chuckled slightly and spread my arms, my body language inviting them to join in the joke. It worked; even Isaac unbent enough to smile a little. Score one for client presentations and performing as a standup comic; I knew how to work a crowd when I wanted to.

Now it was time to get them from 'not grumpy' to 'enthusiastic'. "Your discipline—the life of the mind, the power of knowledge, the effort to understand the universe...these are the things I'm trained in. I'm not a mage, of course, but I admire the work you do, and I hope you'll continue to do it in support of the nation; we can't win this war without you." The ego-stroking done, I paused for their answer. They all nodded; Isaac wore an only-slightly-sour smile, Reynard had a twinkle in his eye, and Matthew—quiet Matthew, imperturbable Matthew—was actually looking at me in pleased respect and surprise.

Finally I turned to face the clerics, again waving the Landguard off before giving the clerics a half-bow. "Gentlemen, I don't practice your faith, but I do respect it." Which was a flat lie, but I wasn't going to start talking about my anti-theist beliefs in a world where gods literally went around smiting people. "Your good works in the city are the salvation of thousands, and it speaks highly of you that you would undertake such works without possibility of repayment. I was delighted at your education programs and I'd like to offer national resources towards expanding them. Your efforts will be absolutely vital in this war; without it, the men's morale will fail, wounds that could easily be healed will kill them, and disease will sweep through the camps, killing hundreds if not thousands. As to the bared blades just now...as I said to the Archmagi, I do apologize for the Landguard's actions—they were acting on my orders, and I had them take position around you for the same reason that I had them restrain the Archmagi; I really didn't want to startle you into Flame Striking the lot of us into oblivion." I paused to chuckle ruefully, again with the open body language that invited them to join me. "After all, I'm sure you all have a lovely afterlife waiting for you, but I'm not sure about myself so let's not be in too much of a hurry to get there, hmm?" I deliberately grinned.

Apparently the church is more political than the Association of Magi, because the Archpriest clearly saw right through my ego-boo and face-saving efforts. One eyebrow went up a tiny fraction, his lips quirked in a minute smile, and he gave the tiniest little snort of derision as if to say "Really? Don't you think that was a _little_ over the top? Try it again without the cheese." But, then his face relaxed into a true smile and he positively beamed at me. "The True Church would be glad to help, My Lord, in whatever way we can. And we will speak to the minor churches for you."

I nodded my thanks and turned to the last remaining group, the warleaders. Most of them were clearly furious at how I had treated the Duke, but none of them were actively causing trouble.

This time a bow of respect; not too deep though, as I didn't want to look servile. "And finally, to the most critical of all. If the mages and the clerics are key to the war, how much more critical are you? Everything I have heard since coming here is about the courage and skill of Flobovia's soldiers. I've been told that, were we outnumbered only two to one instead of five to one, Flobovia would be fine." Another flat lie, but whatever. "Unfortunately, that's not the hand we've been dealt."

I paused to let the compliment, and the grim words that followed it, sink in. I needed them thinking about the danger, not about my attack on one of their own. When I saw some of the anger easing, I continued.

"Flobovia cannot possibly win this war without your support, and so I ask you to stand behind your nation. If we work together, it will save the lands we all love, and the lives of the people who live and work and pay taxes there. With your help, we will smash this enemy into dust. With your help, we will crush them utterly. With your help, we can _kill_ their men, _take_ their gold, and divide up their magic items as we see fit. But all this—only with your help." I gave them a wink and nodded respectfully towards the other groups. "With, of course, significant shares in those magic items going to the clerics and mages as well. I think it only fair that each mage receive copies of all spell books we find, and the Church receive all healing items, don't you? But the remainder shall be divided among those soldiers that earn them by force of arms." God that was flowery and overly dramatic, but I thought it might fit this culture.

Surprise and sudden thoughtful interest spread around the room. I stood silent, with the best impression I could manage of Sergeant Duncan's evil smile.

After a few moments of avaricious thought, Reynard cleared his throat. "So...you mentioned a strategy you wanted to execute tonight, M'Lord?"

"Yes," I said. Now it was easy to bare my teeth; I was proud of my plan, and it was positively evil. "All the mages with Dedicated Wrights that you know of; I need them in this room, with their Wrights. Right now."

Multiple Sendings flew out from each of the three Archmagi. Less than five minutes later, there was a series of 'Bamf!' sounds, and three men in robes stood in our midst, rubbing sleep from their eyes and clutching pot-bellied clay figures that waved their stubby limbs like fussy toddlers.

I was unpleasantly surprised that there were only three of them, but I hid it. Turning to a scribe, I mumbled a list at him, then took his paper and handed it to the couriers. "Get me three sets of this gear. Fast."

Couriers sprinted off, and I turned back to the three new arrivals. "Gentlemen," I said. "I have a proposition for you..."


	6. Niven's Foot Falls

_**Author's Note:**__ The science in this chapter is accurate for the scenario described. You can experiment with different scenarios at http tinyurl com slash 2847ff5_

_Blah blah blah disclaimer._

* * *

Far, far above the earth, six figures appeared. Three of them, human mages all, vanished precisely six seconds later, leaving the others gazing down at the soft blue curve of the world below. Immediately, the unforgiving pull of gravity reached out to pull them tightly into its embrace.

The three figures, each a mile higher than the previous one, quickly oriented themselves parallel to the earth and spreadeagled, as though lying with their pot bellies on a mattress. The lowest had a bit more trouble than the others, flailing its stubby clay limbs and tumbling, but it eventually mastered the trick. The three moved into a rough formation, the Continual Flame spells on their heads making it easy for each to track the others, especially through the nearly-nonexistent air at this altitude.

Far away, a cup tied to the forehead of the topmost figure contained an Arcane Eye that relayed all of this to a mage named Davis, who repeated what he saw into the Major Image that surrounded him. Three dozen people watched the Image and held their breath in rapt attention.

For something the size of a Dedicated Wright, falling from one hundred miles above the earth takes around seven minutes. The fall was quite peaceful, much like resting on a featherbed. Occasionally, the wind sent one or another of the constructs into gut-wrenching tumbles until they could stabilize, but it was manageable. And always, there was the raging rush of the wind, like an upside-down waterfall pouring past; the sound, relayed by Davis, bounced off the walls of the the War Room in a cacophony of echoes.

Four minutes into its fall, the lowest Wright could see the Deorsi encampment as a splotch of color below and to one side. Immediately, its controlling mage angled it slightly to fall on a slant, sliding closer to its target; the others shifted to follow.

As the distance closed, more detail could be seen. The location of the tents in the center of the camp, larger and more ornate than those of the common troops, became clear. Immediately, all three Wrights shifted into a head-down position, slashing towards those tents like thunderbolts.

One after another, the three homunculi unstrapped the heavy iron boxes fastened to their chests, flipped them horizontal, and slid the side off. The moment the box opened, the Greater Glyph of Warding inscribed within detonated in a soundless blast of mystic energy and suddenly the clay figures did not fall alone. Balanced on each metal box was a giant block of iron, under an inch thick but yards high and wide. The wind grabbed the Walls of Iron line a giant hand, flipping them upwards to tumble behind their creators.

Their lack of initial momentum made not the slightest difference. Within seconds each Wall had reached its terminal velocity and was blazing downwards like a demonic bat racing out of hell. The atmosphere around their plummeting metallic forms shredded, hiding them from sight in a shockwave of plasma that lit up the night like three small suns.

What struck the Deorsi encampment was not a series of bombs; it was three individual cataclysms. Each titanic strike produced a crater nearly three hundred feet wide and over sixty feet deep, with a layer of smashed rock and powder reaching down another thirty feet. Much of the powder and crushed rock blasted outwards from the craters like a claymore mine sized for a god. All the soldiers nearest the crater were hit by the rock shards and blown to mulch; from there, the shards continued their upward arc before slashing back down and slicing yet another huge swath of Deorsi soldiers into bloody shreds. The powdered rock fell over everything near and far, mercifully hiding the shredded bodies but also burying living humans and horses alive in suffocating dust.

The blast of rock and powder was mostly fan-shaped, and therefore missed the majority of the army. The hurricane of air blast, however, was circular. A hammer blow of wind blasted out in all directions at four hundred miles an hour, striking without warning. The winds picked up anything in their way—people, loose weapons, cooking pots full of bubbling hot stew, tents, horses—and flung them into the sky, flipping them around like clothes in a dryer before dropping them. Most of the army was affected; thousands died, their lungs ruptured by the wind or their bodies smashed when they fell. Those who survived had broken limbs, internal bleeding, and other damage ranging from serious to life-threatening. Anyone caught between the two nearby craters was hit by both airblasts and ground to paste.

The only good news from the Deorsi perspective was that these were not nuclear strikes; there was no radiation or significant thermal bloom. Despite that, everything inside the craters was simply gone—including the tents of the commanders, senior magi, and senior clerics.

Whoops of joy spread through the Flobovian War Room. The Walls had struck in sequence, allowing the higher Wrights to adjust their aim before summoning their own Wall. The first had landed just beyond the edge of the army, killing or injuring no more than a few thousand common troops. A quick glance upward by the topmost Wright showed that the third Wall was well off course—probably tumbled by a wind gust—and was likely to miss the Deorsi encanpment entirely. The second one, steered by sheer luck or possibly direct divine intervention, landed square in the middle of the senior officers' tents, wiping away the key strategic and magical resources of the enemy like a cook wipes up a minor spill.

All this was relayed in high fidelity, Dolby surround sound, filling the room around us as though we stood in the middle of the action. The cheering continued for minutes with everyone, including the normally reserved Landguard, whooping like mad.

Personally, I felt horror at what I had done. I bit it back though; as Thomas had told me, it was critical to morale that I seem brilliant, wise, and courageous. I was pretty sure that puking on my shoes would not seem courageous, although it certainly struck me as wise.

The owners of the Wrights had been wounded by the magical backlash when their constructs were destroyed, but the Archpriest himself healed them immediately. Even before the healing, the wounded mages were cheering and congratulating me on my brilliance.

Forcing myself to look calm, I turned to Duke Frederick, who was still cradling his shattered hand by the map table. It had been over an hour since I had told Duncan to crush his hand; during that entire time he had remained silent and immobile; the deep lines on his face showing that his hand had him in agony.

Now I waved Duncan away from the Duke, who promptly collapsed. I bowed to the Archpriest, asking "Your Benevolence, would you please heal Duke Frederick?" The high priest nodded, moved to Frederick, and murmured soft words. The familiar golden glow—far brighter than my own healing had been—wrapped around them both. When it faded, Frederick's hand was whole, with not even a bruise. His breathing eased and his legs lost their shakes; clearly the healing had handled more than just the wound itself.

He looked at me, eyes narrowed and unsure. I moved to stand by him and held out my hand to help him up. "Won't you join us, Your Grace? I really would appreciate your advice."

He stared at me a moment longer, then took my hand and climbed to his feet. "Thank you, M'Lord. It would be my pleasure." His voice was stiff with barely disguised rage, but there was some grudging respect as well. I supposed the respect was from the success of my bombing tactic...as to the rage, well, I wouldn't be too happy with someone who maimed me and then left me wallowing in pain and humiliation in front of my peers.

I clapped him on the shoulder in the best impersonation I could manage of a macho brotherly way; I have a feeling it was pathetic, but I'm a whitebread geek from the suburbs, not a jock or one of those troublemaking "rebel without a cause" types. I turned to the map table, one hand inviting him to join me.

Glancing at the mage waiting quietly in his chair, I requested "Davis, please give us a map of the Deorsi's location, the Fens, and the Maligaw."

The mage murmured words that melted from my brain the moment I heard them and suddenly the map table surface became three dimensional, showing the approximate features of the terrain in that area. It wasn't to scale and the Deorsi army was just a rough blob but it was better than a flat depiction. Presumably the issues were due to Davis's unfamiliarity with the actual terrain.

I frowned unhappily at the crude map; more detail would have helped. But, you work with what you've got. "This first strike was succesful, Your Grace, but I would appreciate your input on what you think the Deorsi will do next. I have a trap in mind, but I'm unsure where the best place is to put it."

He looked at me and frowned. I could almost read his thoughts—was I seriously asking his input and showing him respect after the way I had treated him? I met his gaze with as open and interested a face as I could manage, but it probably fell flat; I was far beyond the scenarios I had prepared for, I was exhausted from a long day and the beating Sergeant Duncan had given me, and my calm was blowing away like confetti on the wind. Without it, being in this room with all eyes upon me felt like being a child dressed up in his father's clothes to sneak into a cocktail party.

His eyes finally broke from mine and shifted down to study the illusionary map before us. After a moment he nodded firmly to himself, then turned back to me.

"The Deorsi are a professional army; we eliminated the senior ranks, but the chain of command will devolve to someone. It's going to take a couple of days to sort that out, find everyone, determine who's alive and dead, dig out the troops and supplies from under all that rock and dust and whatever else.

"Were I in command, I would guess that the attack must have been directed from Capital City. I would immediately detach a sizable group, all mounted, to launch the fastest possible strike against the City before the attack could be repeated. Reports suggest that their cavalry screen is about four thousand men; personally, I would dispatch all of them, with mages and clerics in tow.

"A force that small will need substantial magical support to have any chance of taking our defenses, so they can't afford to have their magic drained. They'll avoid the Fens and circle east to the Elf Bridge. Once they get across, they'll attempt to negotiate with the elves for passage through the 'Hame to the Great Trade Road. If that can't be accomplished within a day, perhaps two, they will go west and then north. Most likely, they'll be here in ten or fifteen days, but it could be faster if they use the Road." He wound down at last, waiting for my response.

I nodded, trying to look thoughtful and wise instead of pukey and shaky from suppressed stress, emotion, and adrenaline drop. "Thank you, Your Grace. I didn't think of them detaching a strike force. The Maligaw it is, then. I'll need to think on this a bit." I gave him a small head-bow of respect, hoping that I had the style and depth correct to convey 'pleased executive to middle manager.' I'm certain I blew it, but at least I tried.

Turning to the rest of the room, I said "Ladies and gentlemen—thank you for your help. If you'll excuse me, it's been a very long day and I need to bag out. Let's pick this up tomorrow night at sunset; have a good evening all."

I waved all the Landguard to accompany me as I made a strategic retreat from the room.

Outside, I waited for the door to close and then sprinted for the nearest bathroom, where I puked up everything from my hair to my toenails. Toilets in the ruler's castle consist of a straight shaft leading down to a large fire elemental, so shoving your face into one is like holding it against a space heater; nice at first, but it gets unpleasant after a minute or two.

Oddly, Duncan was the one who came into the room with me while the rest of the Landguard stayed outside. He sat on the floor beside me with a comforting hand on my back and waited for me to finish.

"S'all right lad. Get it out; there's no shame in being sick the first time you kill. Everyone is."

The vomiting went on for several long, highly unpleasant minutes. By the time it ended, I just wanted to die. I was shaking from the adrenaline crash and the horror, and the taste of acid and the chunks of half-digested food in my mouth were nearly enough to set me sicking up again.

Duncan handed me a slab-sided drinking vessel and muttered a word under his breath. Immediately, it filled with water; I rinsed my mouth gratefully, repeatedly spitting down the toilet. From below, I heard a yowl of crackling disgruntlement, but I just didn't care. When I finally couldn't taste the puke anymore, I poured some of the still-flowing water over the back of my neck, then handed the decanter back to Duncan, who turned off the flow with another command word.

Weakly, I growled, "So help me, Duncan, if you insist on another of your sessions before noon tomorrow, I'll order the rest of the 'Guard to tie you up and throw you in the nearest dung heap face down."

He snorted a laugh. "You've earned a stay of execution, M'Lord. We'll pick it up tomorrow. Come on, let's get you to bed."

o-o-o-o

Twenty minutes later I was sitting in the armchair in my bedroom, unable to sleep but unable to think either. Instead, I was staring listlessly at Allison, who was crackling cheerily in the fireplace. Amazingly, she was keeping her mouthy comments to herself.

Suze bumped the door open with one hip and backed into the room, carrying a tray laden with food. She slid the tray onto the low table beside me and curtseyed.

"Commander Thomas said you should eat something, M'Lord," she said diffidently.

I looked at the food apathetically; the thought of eating made me vaguely ill. After a moment, a realization leaked slowly into my brain: everything on the tray was something I had eaten since coming here, and enjoyed. And none of it would upset a bad stomach—it was grapes, mild cheeses, fresh breads, a light soup, and lightly spiced warm cider.

"Did you choose this stuff, Suze?"

She blushed and looked at her feet. "Yes, M'Lord. Commander Thomas mentioned that you weren't feeling well, and I remembered you liked these things, so I thought they might help."

"She's good at this, Jake—that's why she's the upstairs maid. Never forget anyone's choices, do you girl?" Allison's tone sounded like a world-wise grandmother's—somewhere between teasing and proud.

I had a really, really attractive idea, but I just didn't have the energy so all I said was "Thanks, Suze, you're a lifesaver. Have a good night."

With a blush and a quick duck of her head, she scurried out of the room. That girl was sweet and kind and helpful but lordy did she need to work on the self-confidence and assertiveness.

I snorted, a tired smile curving my lips. Given my current "relationship" with Sergeant Duncan, I was a fine one to talk about the need for confidence and assertiveness.

I looked at the bed; it was deliciously warm and inviting, but I was just too tired to climb to my feet and walk across the room, so I settled back into my chair and closed my eyes.

I was starting to drift off to sleep when Robert stuck his head in the room. "I don't mean to bother you, M'Lord but I wanted to let you know that the line of commoners you requested is well on their way. We've recruited and dispatched just over eighteen thousand people."

I nodded and thanked him quietly. A commoner railgun didn't actually work as a weapons launcher—the idea that it did required mixing rule exploits and physics in a way that simply didn't work—but it was an incredible transportation and communication tool.

Something about the prior thought lit up a tired neuron somewhere. Weapons launchers, weapons launchers...there was an idea in the back of my brain, but I couldn't see the details. I yawned and looked longingly at the bed again, but shook it off and cudgeled my brain for the basics of whatever this idea was. After a minute or so, it rose through the sludge until I could see it. I checked the Brainopedia again for the spells I would need.

"Hmm. Before you go to bed, pass the word. Tomorrow I'm going to need a whole lot of magic—a Wall of Force, a Permanceny, and every Wall of Iron, Fireball, Mending, Shrink Item, and electrical spell we can scare up—Shocking Grasp, Lightning Bolt, wands, staves, scrolls, spellcasters—whatever. Also, about fifty thousand copper pieces, a lot of workmen, and a bunch of carpenters with big logs. I need some cranes built." I pushed myself tiredly to my feet and trudged to the small desk in the corner. Grabbing a piece of parchment, I sketched on it quickly with a quill pen, then threw the drawing away with a curse as the ink splotched everywhere. A couple more attempts and I finally got the hang of writing with a feather. I was no artist, but I managed to produce a rough sketch with only a few stray inkblobs. "Doesn't have to be pretty, just really strong—needs to support a few tons. Put 'em in whereever the biggest open space in the city is; we're going to need a lot of room."

Robert looked at the list puzzled. "Are you going to try another of those 'orbital strikes'?"

I shook my head. "No, those only work if there's some kind of guidance system and the target isn't moving much. We seem to be out of Dedicated Wrights with no way to make more in time, and I'm not sure what we could use in place of them. Also, the Dedicated Wrights were a pretty crude system—the first Wall barely hit, the third probably missed entirely, and we got lucky with the second."

I yawned and rubbed my eyes. "Ok, I'm wiped. I'm heading for bed; have a good night, Robert." He gave a polite nod and turned for the door.

I started to climb into bed, when there came a pointed "Ahem!" from the fireplace. "So following you around all day isn't embarrasing enough, now I have to sit here all night and listen to you snore?"

I grinned sleepily. "Go ahea—actually, hang on a moment. Robert?"

He paused, hand on the latch, and looked back. "Yes, M'Lord?"

"Look, I know playing courier isn't your job, but would you mind asking around among the servants to see if anyone would be willing to sit up tonight and keep Allison company? In exchange, they could have tomorrow off with full pay."

He raised an eyebrow. "Of course, M'Lord." And then he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

If a fire can look shocked, Allison did. After a moment though, she got her snark back on. "Thanks, pup. There's hope for you yet," she told me. Under the snarkiness was gratitude though.

I smiled sleepily and snuggled into my big fluffy pillow. "G'night Allison. You can go, and have a nice evening."


	7. Let Sleeping Engineers Sleep

_**Author's Note**: This chapter is another visit with the inimitable Sergeant Duncan. It's not as intense as the previous one, but if you are particularly sensitive you might want to skip it._

_On other topics, this chapter is late getting posted because I spent the weekend at a workshop given by CFAR (the Center For Applied Rationality)-check out rationality . org for details. If you have the chance to go to one of their workshops, take it; you will have more fun and meet more nifty people than you can shake a stick at. In any case, new updates will go back to their normal Saturday schedule._

* * *

"WAKE UP YOU STUPID MAGGOT! ON YOUR FEET!"

I was out of bed on pure reflex before my brain even engaged. Thank god I sleep in a shirt and skivvies.

"STAND STRAIGHT YOU WORTHLESS PILE OF CRAP! DO NOT ALLOW THE THOUGHT OF MOVEMENT TO CROSS YOUR TINY MAGGOT BRAIN OR I _WILL_ DIG THAT THOUGHT OUT OF YOUR BRAIN THROUGH YOUR EYEBALL!" Duncan's face was about half an inch from my nose; his spit was flying all over me and his breath stank to high heaven of garlic and onions, so bad it made my eyes water.

"ARE YOU _CRYING_ YOU WUSS-ASS LITTLE PANSY? BADASS RULERS OF THIS PROUD NATION DO NOT CRY LIKE MOMMA'S BOYS! IF I WANT YOU TO CRY, I WILL GIVE YOU CAUSE!" He belted me in the stomach, knocking the wind right out of me. I doubled over, arms crossed over my belly as I tried and failed to suck in a breath.

"I SAID STAND STRAIGHT, YOU FESTERING DOG TURD!" He grabbed my collar and yanked me upright, but I physically could not straighten up. When I failed, he backhanded me across the face, knocking me to the ground again.

I was still trying to get air in my lungs; he gave me a couple of seconds, then kicked me hard in the thigh. "I SAID UP!" Another two or three seconds, another kick. "UP, YOU GOATLICKER!" Nine or ten kicks later my leg felt like pulped meat but I was finally able to get a breath again.

Another kick, another insult; I could have stood up and just taken it, but red rage was pouring through me and washing away any concern for consequences. I tangled my legs in his and rolled to the side to bring him crashing down.

Or, at least, I tried to. I made him fall, but he rolled smoothly out of it and came up on the other side of the room.

Where he proceeded to stand up straight, smiling beatifically. Damnit.

"Finally! I was wondering what it was going to take to get you to hit back!"

I was still fuming, but I kept myself still. Yesterday had taught me that attacking Sergeant Duncan with anything less than a howitzer was a losing proposition. After a moment, something occured to me; I smiled evilly at him. "Out of curiosity Sergeant, what time is it?"

His response was prompt. "Three a.m. Your Mighty Lordship sir; time for eager young trainees to be up and about, learning to man up." It was positively revolting how disgustingly chipper he sounded. Evil, but chipper. Someone ate his Evil-O's this morning.

"Ok, look. Clearly, I still can't handle this stuff when I'm surprised, but I _can_ if I've got thirty seconds to myself to get prepped; I think I showed that in the War Room, with Duke Frederick. Will you give me a chance to show you?"

Duncan stared at me for a long moment, considering. Finally he shrugged fatalistically and crossed his arms, tossing his head head slightly to the door. I limped past him and stepped outside, closing the door gently behind me. Right outside were four Landguard that I didn't recognize, standing guard at my door. Much like Robert, Rob, Bob, and Aerith, these four all looked like heavily armed walking walls.

"Excuse me, guys. Which one of you is senior here?" I asked.

The one at the left front stood to attention. "Sergeant Madison sir. What can we do for you?"

"Would you please go get...oh, let's say, ten Landguards and have them report here on the double? When they get here, all of you come right in. Don't bother to knock."

He didn't bat an eye. "Certainly, M'Lord." A few brief words and one of those smoke sparrows went winging off.

I limped back inside, closing the door slowly and softly. Duncan was waiting with a positively thunderous expression on his face. "Done with your little breather, pissant? 'Cause we sure ain't done here."

"Thanks for giving me a second to gather up. I'm fine now, and good to go. Before we start, though, could you just answer a couple questions for me? I learn faster when I understand the context."

He rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Fine. What d'you want to know, wuss?"

"Well," I paused, collecting my thoughts. "You've been doing this—training new recruits, that is—for a long time, right?"

"Twenty three years. What's that got to do with anything?"

I shrugged. "Just getting a sense of things. You're good at your job, I just wanted to understand how you got that experience, why you do it this particular way, what kind of problems most of your recruits have—that kind of thing. If I know, then I can avoid those mistakes and get where we're going faster. Was this the way you were trained?"

He snorted. "Nah. My DI was a hardass; nowadays there's this new idea that recruits should be coddled. 'Use the stick _and_ the carrot, Sergeant' says the Commander. So I have to be all soft on 'em."

I whistled and shook my head slowly with a rueful smile. "If this is soft, Sergeant, I shudder to think what you consider hard."

He grunted with just the tiniest hint of shared humor. Then he stepped forward. "Ok, pissbucket, that's enough jawing. Time to get back to work."

I held up my hands in a 'stop' gesture. "Hang on, hang on. Just a couple more things."

He shifted his weight back, one toe tapping. "Make it quick."

"Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to waste your time. My bad. Anyway, um..." I paused, frowning as though I'd lost my train of thought. "Ah, right, I remember. You're teaching me to deal with confrontation, right?"

"Damn straight. Can't have a ruler that lets people walk all over him."

"You're absolutely right. Thanks for the training, by the way...it hurts like hell, but I think it's helping, don't you?"

He snorted again and tossed his head in a small shrug. "Damned if I know. Yesterday I had to actually stand at attention before you'd man up and do anything but get your ass kicked. Today you just lay there while I kicked the crap out of you. Eventually you at least tried to hit back but it was the most limp-wristed attack I've ever seen. If you keep going at this rate we'll all be dead of old age by the time you learn."

I smiled sadly. "Yeah, probably true. It's been a problem all my life, honestly. Anyway, the real thing I wanted to ask you was—" Just then the door opened and two full squads of Landguard piled through.

"Gentlemen, please come in," I grinned, inviting the armed and armored defensive line of the Greenbay Packers farther into the room.

Duncan didn't look even vaguely surprised. If anything, he seemed to sigh.

"Would you all be so kind as to restrain Sergeant Duncan for me?" They moved in on him, looking none too sanguine about the idea. A moment later, all eleven of them were in a frenzied scrum, moving too fast for me to follow. It took a few seconds, and when it ended five of the new arrivals were disabled on the ground, but Duncan was face down on the carpet, two men kneeling on his legs while a third cranked his arms up behind him with a knee on his neck for control.

I walked up to Duncan, gently getting down on the carpet and stretching out in front of him, my chin on my folded hands and my legs kicking up behind me like a kid watching cartoons. I knew taunting was tacky, but I really couldn't help myself. I smiled at him sweetly. "Sergeant, I'd like to thank you very much for the teaching you've been giving me. It's really helping a lot," I told him in a butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth tone. "If you don't mind though, I'd like to offer a few suggestions. First off, you might want to learn the difference between three a.m. and noon. Second, go look up the word 'stalling'. Third...don't mess with engineers. We're sneaky, and we always keep our promises."

I turned to the Landguard who were restraining Duncan. "Would you all be so kind as to throw Sergeant Duncan in the nearest dungheap?"

The one I had spoken to didn't bat an eye. "Face up or face down, M'Lord?"

"Oh, face down, by all means. And please make sure he's conscious for it."

Duncan was struggling now and cursing a blue streak, but the troops didn't seem to care. One of the ones that had been on the floor pushed himself to his feet with a groan and led the way out the door; three of the others carried Duncan out face down, his arms and legs securely tied. There was a little trouble getting them all out the door while carrying Duncan, but they managed. A few minutes later, a pair of clerics came in, fixed my leg, healed the unconscious 'Guards, and led them away.

Me? I went back to bed and slept the sleep of the righteously avenged.


	8. Making Sausage Makers

**Author's Note**: I continue to lack success in failing to not own D&D. I do, however, have success at making the science in this chapter match reality.

* * *

I woke up just as the sun was cracking the horizon, feeling much refreshed. Stretching with a huge yawn, I paced into the bathroom and climbed into a long hot shower, letting the water beat on my face and wash away all the stress of my situation for at least a little while.

Eventually, my valet knocked softly and called "May I aid you with your dress, M'Lord?"...which pretty much blew away any calm I had built up.

I called back through the door that no, thank you, I would be fine on my own. Having him dress me yesterday had been way too creepy and infantilizing; I was not about to put up with it again. It took a couple of times repeating the order, but eventually he went away.

My calm thoroughly ruined, I got out and toweled off, pulled my clothes on (which, of course, took me three times as long as if he'd helped; I still wasn't used to dressing like an escapee from Ye Olde Renn Faire) and paced outside, still toweling my hair. My mouth felt like a herd of goats had slept in it; I really missed toothbrushes and Aquafresh. I made a mental note to ask one of the magi for a Prestidigitation. Hey, if my dentist could clean my teeth with floss, some robe-wearing pointy hat could brush them with a bit of arcane juju.

I started reviewing all the things I wanted to do today; pretty quickly the list spiraled so hugely out of control that everything except the top item or two were lost. Well, I thought I knew the answer to that.

I leaned out the door to one of the Landguard. "Could you ask Suze to come up here please? Thanks." I retreated inside, already lost in thought, and sat staring at Allison's cheerfully crackling form.

Something hit me and all of a sudden I was leaning forward excitedly. "Hey Allison, the terms of your binding—there was something in there about providing light anywhere I asked for, right?"

"Wow, only twenty four hours since you were told the terms and you've forgotten them already. You meatsacks...memories like steel traps, all of you. Pity they're rusted open."

I snerked at her flippant smack talk but persisted. "Seriously, repeat your exact Binding for me."

She rattled it off again; I interrupted her in the middle.

"There we go! Booya! Age of the geek, baby—we _will_ spot the loopholes! Ok, Allison, think about this for a second: it says that you have to provide light and heat 'from whatever location the ruler requires'. So, I could require you to provide light in Thomas's room and you could send him a message for me, right?"

She blew a spark-carrying raspberry at me. "Bzzzt! Thank you for playing, please try again! Remember the bit about 'When not needed, this elemental shall return directly to the circle of its summoning'? If you don't need me to provide light here, I have to go to the circle, I can't go anywhere else. That 'whereever you require' directive is talking about me being in the fireplace, on a torch, whatever."

I shook my head, determined to convince her. "But going back to the circle is in direct contradiction to the part about providing the light 'from whatever location' I require it. If I explicitly require you to provide light in another room then clearly you are needed, so the rule about going back to the circle when not needed doesn't apply, right?"

Had she had a face, I'm pretty sure her jaw would have been sagging at this thought.

"Yeah, well, ok, I guess. But why should I pass your messages, huh? I'm not your errand girl. I'm not even a girl at all, come to think of it, and thank Fire for that. You meatbags and all your icky plumbing—and I'm talking about the the boys and the girls here, so don't get any cute ideas."

I grinned at her; it was great having someone who didn't get all bow-y and scrape-y about the M'Lord thing. "Well, how about just as a favor? I'd really appreciate it."

"Bite me, man-boy. Sounds intensely stupid, to me—not like my current life isn't degrading enough, now I have to be at your beck and call? I don't think so!"

My grin slipped. "Look, this would really help with the war effort, Allison. And given that I made sure you get tasty food instead of crap and I arranged for someone to keep you company at night so you aren't bored, doesn't it seem like it might be a decent thing to do?"

Again with the raspberry. "Pound sand, you big ball'o'meatcrap! Like I want to help you; I've been in this loony rockpile acting as a glorified campfire for five centuries with no end in sight. You think I want to play errand girl to some balding ape with a saggy belly and nothing to keep a lady happy?"

My voice got softer and I smiled; her attitude on this was starting to annoy me. "Well, you might do this because I'm happy to pay you for it, in pretty much whatever you want to be paid in."

"Hmm, well, I'll think about it, waterbag. Sounds pretty boring though. Personally, if I'm going to start playing games with interpreting my binding, I think I'd rather just set your bed on fire some night. Be damned entertaining watching you burn." Her voice was taking on a nasty edge.

I was smiling wider, and it was not a friendly smile. "Allison, I'd really appreciate it if you could make this a little less personal. I think this is a pretty reasonable request, and I'm offering to pay for it. If you don't want to do it, just say no. But cut out the attitude."

"Bite me, sweatpouch. I'm not doing a damn thing for your stupid fat ass except light and heat—and that's only because I'm magically compelled to. You think I _like_ you, you stinking ape? You think I like hanging around you, listening to you yap and yap and yap? You come in here and immediately start getting on your high horse, shoving all your so-called 'good ideas' down everyone's throats. You think you're some kind of military genius? _You?_ You said it yourself—you're nothing but a mediocre web programmer, meatball. You're not qualified for this job in any way. Tens of thousands of people are going to die, and it's going to be _your_ fault. Dumbass." She started off sneering and by the end she was practically snorting her derision.

I leaned forward, staring at her very intently. I was beyond infuriated; I had passed straight through red rage into that place of complete ice where consequences and morality stop seeming important. When I spoke, my voice was very soft and I was no longer smiling. "You _will_ be my messenger, and you _will_ do the job to my satisfaction. And you will _never_ disrespect me again. Because if you piss me off one more time, I'll have them refrigerate your summoning circle and I'll brick up the door so you're trapped there, alone in the freezing dark, forever."

She let out a deep belly laugh, flaring higher for a moment before damping herself back down. "Ha! Thanks, Jake! You just won me a month's supply of dried flowers. I told Duncan you wouldn't put up with this crap but he didn't believe me."

Now I was confused, which made me even angrier. "What the hell are you talking about, Allison?"

The flames danced cheerfully; I almost imagined I could see a repeated fist-pump going on. "Sergeant Duncan bet me that no matter how hard I pushed you, you wouldn't drop the hammer on me, you'd just give up. I told him that was chicken feathers; I'm way more annoying than that! I am the brightly shining Mistress of Annoying, for yea, I have worked most hard at my annoying-ness, I have studied under the Great Master Fu'ko-ov himself and practised his demanding Way of the Annoying diligently for centuries!" She started shifting back and forth in the fireplace grate, apparently her version of a victory dance. "Oh yeah, who's the elemental? Who's the elemental? That's right, it's me. It's me! Oh Duncan, pay up sucker, a whole month of yummy yummy dried flowers!"

By this point I was having to laugh at her antics, just about all of my anger gone. Clearly, I'd been suckered; it was just another of Duncan's little "decisiveness-building" exercises. Bastard.

"Ok, you got me. Now, all kidding aside, would you be willing to do it?"

"Hells yeah! Sounds fantastic, getting to bounce around the castle, talk to lots of people, see things that aren't just the room you're in." Suddenly her tone changed, becoming elaborately casual. "Oh, of course I'll expect that honorarium you mentioned—something modest like, say...a diet consisting of nothing but dried wildflowers, dried grasses, anthracite, and well-seasoned cherry wood. Plus four attendants per night when I'm in my circle who talk to me on subjects of my choosing."

I snorted. "Yeah, no. We're fresh out of 'the sun, the moon, and the stars', sorry. But if you give me a list of what you like for munching, I'll make sure we have a supply on hand. And I'm not going to force anyone to sit up with you, but I'll definitely let everyone know that you'd enjoy it, and that I'll give any servant who does so the next day off with pay—but only one servant a day."

"It's a deal. Light on it?" I looked puzzled, so she explained. "Grab a long splinter off the kindling pile there and hold it over here so I can light it. Let it burn as big as you can, then blow it out while it's still big. It's how elementals seal an important deal".

I shrugged and did as she asked, selecting a thick splinter about a foot long and holding it as close to her flames as I could stand. A long jet of fire curled out of the fireplace and played across the tip of it until there was a good flame going.

I held the splinter at a slight angle so the flame grew larger as it climbed up the wood toward my hand. I kept turning it so that it grew large, blackening all the wood almost to my fingers. When it got too close, I took a big breath and blew it out like a giant birthday candle.

"Congratulations, Jake. We just birthed an Elemental," Allison said softly.

I looked at her in surprise. "What?"

"Every fire that burns, anywhere in all the worlds of all the planes, from the stars in the sky to the tiniest spark crackling from a match—all these are part of my home, the Elemental Plane of Fire. When a fire dies, it returns home and becomes some part of the Eternal Flame—most become simple background radiation, while a few become part of the lifecycle. But those few have no sapience, no thought; they are much like the plants and animals of your world. We Elementals live alongside and above those others, but we are not of them; it's much the way you humans live alongside but above rabbits and wolves.

"Only a tiny number of Elementals exist on my plane at any time...because an Elemental is born only when a fire is created by the gift of Flame from an Elemental's body and extinguished by the gift of Air from a sapient non-Elemental's breath. And even then, the new Elemental is usually tiny, nothing more than a spark. Easy prey for any of the 'animals' of my home. But the larger the flame that was extinguished, the larger the new Elemental...and the one we just birthed was relatively large for a newborn. The new little salamander will be fine until she finds other Elementals to blaze with."

I smiled softly, feeling just a bit misty-eyed. "Thank you, Allison. That's beautiful," I murmured.

Just then there came a knock at my door and Suze slipped inside.

"Hey Suze, I wanted to ask you a favor—" I started before fully registering the oddity. Instead of her usual uniform she was wearing an amazing dress. Clearly her best, it was all streams of deep blues and gentle greens flowing together from neck to heel. A bit of lace showed off the modest bodice quite nicely. With her natural slender curves she looked like a starlet. Except that her eyes were huge and she was visibly shaking.

I stared at the dress for a moment, then at her, until it clicked.

"Relax girl, I just want to talk. You're way too young for me and I'd like to think I still have a few morals," I told her acerbically.

She stared at me, clearly wondering if this was some kind of ploy or game, but slowly calmed down as she realized that I really wasn't going to demand sex. She very slowly took the chair I gestured to, perching right on the edge with her back ramrod straight and her hands folded white-knuckled in her lap.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes tiredly. "Seriously, would you please relax? I'm not going to eat you, shout at you, or threaten to have you flogged with a wet noodle...much less demand that you have sex with me. You're too young, I'm too old, and I'm your boss. So relax, for God's sake."

"Oh, for the love of Fire, Jake!" Allison yelled at me from the fireplace. "Put yourself in her shoes—she's the upstairs maid, you're the ruler of Flobovia. Do you know how many nobles drag the pretty maids off to their rooms at night? It's so common that when your message got to her she took the time to change into her Sunday dance dress before coming up, so that you were more likely to be pleased and not beat her. By the way, Suze, great dress. You're good with a needle, girl." Then Allison rounded on me again. "And then you say that you want to talk instead of have sex—she has no idea what you want to talk to her about, so she's petrified that you're going to yell at her or she's not going to know what you're talking about and she'll look like a fool. And you want her to relax?!"

I thumped my head on the back of the chair a few times in exasperation. Then I sat forward again.

"Look, Suze, I just wanted to ask you about your memory. You remembered my food preferences, and Allison's, and now that I think about it, you greeted each of those scribes and couriers in the sitting room by name and handed them specific items off the tray; not everyone got the same stuff. Can you do that with everyone?"

She nodded shyly. "Yes, M'Lord. I've always had a good memory, particularly for people—names, faces, foods, that kind of thing. And I was born in the castle and grew up here, so I know almost everyone."

"How about dates and thigs to do? Are you good with those too?"

She nodded mutely.

I couldn't have been more delighted. "Excellent! Suze, would you be willing to take a promotion? I'm terrible with all of the things you're good at; would you be willing to do them for me? I really, really need a personal assistant—someone who can help me remember what I need to do, where I need to be when, remind me of people's names so that I don't look stupid talking to them—that kind of thing."

She looked bewildered. "M'Lord...I don't know anything about politics, or etiquette, or any of that. I wouldn't know how to—" she trailed off, unsure of how to finish; her hands twisted nervously in her lap.

I shook my head and held my hands up to ward the thought away. "No, no, I'm not asking you to do anything political. And I suspect that growing up in the caslte you've absorbed a lot more of the etiquette than I know. But forget that; I just need you to stick close to me through the day and remind me of things I might have forgotten—where I need to be, when I need to get ready for a meeting, that kind of thing. And most importantly, help me with names and faces. I want people to feel glad about having me as their ruler, and part of that is showing that I remember them. Which, unfortunately, I am _really_ bad at. So I'd like you to help me. For example—if someone is coming up to me, whisper their name to me so I can greet them when they arrive, maybe the name of their wife so I can ask after her, that sort of thing. Unless it's, you know, Thomas, Reynard, or other people that you're sure I know. Would you mind doing that?"

She nodded spasmodically. "As you wish, M'Lord."

My lip twitched for a moment in disgruntlement but I made the effort to smooth my face out and put on a reassuring smile. The poor thing was terrified enough; scaring her further would be counterproductive.

"Suze, you really don't need to do this unless you want to. I would appreciate it, and I'm happy to triple your pay and give you whatever other perks you want in exchange. But if the thought of it scares you too much, just say so and I promise I won't push you on it or hold it against you." Suddenly, inspiration struck. "Allison, would you please chime in?"

The fire elemental spoke soothingly. "It's ok, Suze. He means it; if you don't want to do it, you don't have to. Personally, I think it would be good for you, child; it would help you build up your confidence."

She looked back at me; her eyes were still huge, but now there was a hint of a smile—a very nervous, uncertain smile, but a smile nonetheless. She nodded slowly. "Yes, M'Lord. I'd be glad to."

I grinned. "Cool!"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

I gave Suze the morning off so she could go buy herself a wardrobe suitable for mingling with the hoity-toity types; I sent one of the Landguard with her to carry stuff and make sure she didn't get mugged.

Meanwhile, I ordered some breakfast, then sat at the desk making notes and getting my thoughts in order. The Deorsi were probably still digging out from under the rubble, so we had a few more days on that front. Also, no matter how elite they were, the cavalry screen probably couldn't be organized, given their orders, equipped for long-distance travel, and dispatched within the next day, possibly two. There were four thousand of them, after all, and magi and clerics would need to be located and attached to their force.

Once they left their encampment, of course, they would be on us fast. It was going to be critical to slow them down. And right now, I had absolutely no idea how to do that. No magical effect I could think of would have both the area and the power, and I didn't think we could get enough troops there in time to stop them physically.

After about an hour of staring blankly at a blank sheet of paper, I sighed, climbed to my feet, and trudged downstairs, my Landguard escorts following silently. Along the way Thomas, Duncan, and a squad of eight Landguard "just happened" to bump into us and decide to tag along. Apparently Thomas was feeling overprotective—or perhaps this was his not-so-subtle way of expressing his irritation with me for arguing with him yesterday about the size of my protective detail. And so it was that I was surrounded by an entire wall of living cuisinarts when we reached the Plaza of Remembrance.

The largest open space in the city, the Plaza was a perfect circle two hundred yards across, floored in slate and surrounded by the homes of the richest citizens. The slates had been brought from every corner of Flobovia, and each was colored slightly differently, reflecting the minerals in the ground where it was mined...and, symbolically, the diversity and unity of the nation. The natives were too accustomed to it to look twice but to me it was beautiful and eye-misting and simultaneously as intimidating as hell.

In the very center of the square loomed a ziggurat of rough cut granite surmounted by a slender quartz spike twenty feet high. Every surface of the ziggurat was carved, in intricate detail, with the earliest history of Flobovia. Deeply chiseled into its rough surface were the names of every one of the fifteen hundred men, women, and children who had first settled on this spot fifty-eight centuries ago. Details of their lives and deaths, their family trees for four generations, descriptions of the pains and hardships, the triumphs and joys, records of the food they had struggled to grow and the famines and deaths that followed when their first three crops failed. All that and more were carved deep into the sides of those black stone walls. The milky white quartz at the top caught the sun throughout the day, splitting it and reflecting it in all directions so that faint rainbows marched slowly around the Plaza as the sun westered, fading only as night fell.

At the very topmost level, carved into each side of the granite base that supported the quartz, was a quote from the woman who had led the original hegira to what was now the proud nation of Flobovia...which, at the time, had been nothing more than a shanty town. It was written in a dialect so old only scholars understood it, but every citizen of Flobovia knew it by heart:

_I must study politics and war that our children may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. Our children ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, commerce, and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain._

The Plaza was reserved space. Merchants were free to set up around the perimeter, but no trade was allowed on the actual slates. That space was reserved for political lectures, military training, political debates, poetry recitals, artistic schools and endeavors, and the annual Festival of Remembrance.

I hadn't realized what a furor it would cause when I had ordered that the cranes be set up in "the largest open space in the city." An actual mob, thousands strong, had formed to protest this violation of tradition. The issue had finally been settled when Thomas went out with a small honor guard of the oldest, toughest, most honored members of the Landguard. All of them had been weaponless, in their formal uniforms, marching in precise lockstep. Each 'Guard save Thomas held the banners of their companies at the precisely correct angle. The mob had quieted upon seeing them; they knew these men and women, and respected them.

Thomas had climbed the ziggurat to its first level, turned, and waited. After a moment, the mob was completely silent, waiting to hear what their champion would say. Thomas had spoken of the threat that the Deorsi posed to the Land, of how the cranes were a part of a strategy conceived by the ruler himself to protect all the citizens from this threat. He had been completely forthright, admitting that he did not know what their exact purpose was. But he described the bombing I had executed, and its devastating impact on the enemy. And then, after a moment, he had stated that he had faith that the cranes would serve the Land. And then he simply stood, silent. After a long moment, the mob turned, still silent, and left.

I learned all this later that night, after all the 'fun' was long over. When I heard, I was humbled, and thanked Thomas for his efforts; he shrugged my thanks off, saying only "Instead of thanking me, save them."

For today, however, I arrived at the Plaza to find several hundred people waiting—about a hundred casters of various levels, another couple of hundred apprentices, a whole lot of carpenters and stevedors, and even more curious civilians watching. Unsurprisingly, the Plaza was ringed with vendors of all sorts, eager to capitalize on the crowd. Fruit, beer, meat, trinkets, clothing, medicines, even pets—it seemed like everything imaginable was on sale somewhere on the perimeter of the slates.

The carpenters—only a small group, here to fix any cranes or windlasses that broke—were the ones covered in sawdust, looking grumpy from working all night and then having to stay instead of going home to their beds. The stevedors were the muscular ones in homespun, looking grumpy for being pulled away from their familiar work, even though I was paying three times their normal rate. The wizards and the apprentices were the ones wearing fine robes and looking grumpy for having been summoned here so early and with no explanation.

There were a series of cranes, ten feet apart, equipped with thick hawsers and multiple pulleys in order to provide tremendous mechanical advantage. Each crane dangled a series of loops of rope, each supporting a small wooden platform with guideropes leading off to one side.

I climbed up to the first level of the ziggurat so everyone could see me, waited for a moment until everyone settled down expectantly, and began my speech. I tried to project, but mostly just ripped my throat up; I had never spoken to this many people without amplification.

"Thank you all for the hard work you did last night, and for being here today. The devices we are about to build will be completely unlike anything the Deorsi have ever seen; completely non-magical in their effect, striking from ranges beyond their their ability to retaliate, there will no defending against them with magic. They will allow us to win this war!"

Everyone was silent and even grumpier than before. Embarrased, I climbed back down.

"I think you need a few more ranks in your 'Make Inspiring Speech' skill, M'Lord," Thomas murmured softly to me, with just the tiniest quiver of a smile. I mumbled something rude about what he could do with his criticism, then turned to tell the workmen what I needed.

They did not understand a word. So I explained it again, in different terms.

They thought I was nuts. But they did it anyway.

Over the next few hours, we got a lot done. The first run was the trickiest as it involved so much explaining. One of the casters put up a Wall of Force under the cranes, bending it into a series of horizontal stairsteps seven feet tall with 'steps' of various widths. I was patting myself on the back about the idea of bending the Wall; no DM in my world would have allowed it, but technically the Rules As Written said only that the Wall had to be "flat and vertical"—it didn't say "straight." I carefully ignored the fact that this was a trick Flobovians had known about for fifteen hundred years; it would have seriously harshed my buzz.

Wall of Force doesn't last long, though, so we needed to extend the duration a bit. Turns out that a Permanency spell is about the last word in extending duration, so that's what we used. Why not? Wall of Force is a dismissable spell, so it wasn't like it would be sitting there taking up space for all eternity.

As soon as the Wall was up and Permanenced, Matthew cast a Wall of Iron into the supporting loops of the cranes, producing a flat sheet of iron three quarters of an inch thick, six feet high, and four hundred feet long. It weighed in at over thirty-six tons; the cranes creaked under the weight, but they took it.

From there it was easy; the stevedors spun the crane's windlasses, lowering the Wall of Iron quickly but smoothly onto the Wall of Force. The stevedors on the guideropes controlled it carefully as it descended so it would fall exactly where needed.

A Wall of Iron is a sheet of normal iron and therefore subject to the normal laws of physics—oxidation, gravity, mass, volume, shearing, and so on. A Wall of Force is a plane of mystical energy that stares physics firmly in the eye, sticks out its tongue and says "Neener, neener!" while wiggling its fingers in its ears. It is absolutely immobile, absolutely indestructible by any physical force...and, since, unlike every other Wall spell, the Rules As Written say nothing about thickness, it is absolutely two dimensional. In short, it is the most amazing knife imaginable, and it slid through the iron like a hot knife through olive oil.

The Wall of Force had been carefully shaped in such a way as to slice the iron into various sizes depending on their purpose, without slicing the ropes. As soon as the segments hit the ground, more stevedors leaped forward, grabbed them, and dragged them away to make room for the next. Even as they did, the men at the windlasses were cranking furiously, pulling the rope loops back above the level of the Wall of Force. At which point another Wall of Iron was cast and sliced, and then another, and another.

As the workmen settled into a rhythm, I took some casters aside and got into the next phase.

In a D&D world, even though the Crafting rules make it impossible to actually create anything in a sane time period, there's a really cool hack for manufacturing many simple things quickly: use Shrink Item to get the raw material (in this case, iron) to a manageable size and change it into cloth. Cut the cloth, roll it, even stitch it with a few threads taken from the side of it, then restore it to normal. If you need the iron to be thicker, cut the cloth into pieces, stack the pieces on top of each other and use a series of Mendings to meld them together before you unshrink them.

There are other tricks too—for example, use a quill to make a very faint, very tightly packed, impression in the cloth. Restore it to normal and you have iron with a faint groove covering its surface. Pile copper pieces on it and hit everything with a Fireball; the copper melts and some of it flows into the grooves. The iron isn't affected, so you can scrape off the excess molten copper, let the whole mess cool, and Shrink it again. Very carefully pull the copper thread out of the resulting cloth and enlarge everything; voila, several thousand feet of copper wire.

The fun doesn't stop there, though. Wrap the copper wire as many times as you can around an iron bar and repeatedly slam electrical spells through it to get a powerful bar magnet. Put that magnet in the center of an axle with enough grease that the magnet can spin independently of the axle. Add a copper tube around the magnet, a wooden frame supporting a power takeoff (a set of copper brushes hanging down onto the tube and a thick cable leading off to the side) and you've got a sweet little generator. I wasn't sure exactly how much power it was putting out, but some very crude tests suggested that the answer was somewhere between 'a crapton' and 'a metric buttload'. It certainly succeeded in vaporing a bucket of water right quick, which was all I really needed it to do.

We had about a dozen casters who could cast Wall of Iron at least once per day, as well as a lot of scrolls, wands, and whatevers that could cast it. There were also plenty of Shrink Items available and an enormous number of Mending spells—all of the apprentices had that at least once, as well as the actual magi.

Over the course of that day we manufactured about sixty cannon barrels and hundred of cannonballs. We made the cannon small but nicely tricked out—six feet long, four inch inner bore diameter, rear trunnions, rear towbar, and front axles mounting large oaken wheels. All up they weighed about six hundred and fifty pounds, so a team of eight average men could lift and carry one. Mount that team on mules and the guns could be deployed quickly into nearly any terrain. Their only drawback was that they were smoothbore, not rifled, so accuracy wouldn't be great.

Of course, when you've got a giant shotgun that blasts over a hundred one-inch iron balls at a few hundred soldiers from several football fields away, accuracy really isn't that important.

In addition to the cannons, we made thousands of cannonballs of varying sizes and types, nearly as many bar magnets and copper tubes, hundreds of feet of thick copper cable, and literally miles of the thin copper wire that was used to create the bar magnets. Actually, we made so many of everything that there weren't enough hands to bag up all the cannonballs or stack all the cannons. All of the workmen were scrambling at top speed just to keep up with the constant flow of materiel coming from the hands of the magi.

But we didn't just produce cannons; we also produced accidents. Within the first two hours, four workers had feet or hands crushed by dropped cannons, and two men got bad electrical burns when they accidentally spun the magnet on a generator while carrying it. By an amazing coincidence, however, there happened to be a dozen high level paladins nearby who were able to heal all the damage. Afterwards, I sent the formerly-injured men home for the day with my thanks in their ears and a large bonus in their pockets.

What the Landguard could not heal, however, was the man who was cut in half and killed when he accidentally stumbled into the end of the Wall of Force. When I saw that, I started to shout for a doctor, then realized that there weren't any in this world.

"Bob, Aerith! Get a cleric who can resurrect him. Don't worry about money, just go!" I said loudly. Almost before the words were out of my mouth, Bob and Aerith were sprinting off in different directions. Both were moving at speeds that would have torn the spots off a cheetah—and they did it while wearing full armor and carrying weapons.

There was nothing further I could do to deal with the situation which left me with lots of adrenaline and nothing to do with it. My mind spun in circles, looking for something useful to do or think about so that it didn't have to register the two bleeding halves of a human being on the ground a few yards away. Ninety seconds ago, he had been a man, probably with a family and certainly with hopes, dreams, and plans; now he was a couple of chunks of meat not too different from what the vendors around the Plaza were selling.

And, of course, my weirdo brain fixed on something completely pointless. "Ok, Thomas," I demanded, turning to the head of my protective detachment. "What the hell? Fantasy world, fine. Magical powers, fine. But I simply refuse to believe that every single member of the Landguard just so happens to be a world-class sprinter on top of everything else. What gives?"

Thomas flicked his eyes around, checking that noone was near, and then spoke in a jailyard whisper. "We live under permanent Haste spells, Jake. Beyond that, don't ask here. Later, when we're in the Work Room and under shields."

My eyebrow did the Spock thing, but I didn't push it. Instead, I moved over to the body and stood there, gloomily contemplating what I had caused. Finally I sighed and looked around.

No one in the square was working. They were all staring at me—most of them with expressions of resentment and anger for bringing them to work on this apparently pointless, dangerous task. A very few were looking surprised and perhaps a bit impressed that I was providing an expensive and rare Resurrection spell for a simple dockworker.

It was almost a full hour before Aerith came back with a cleric in tow. She was a tall, skeletally thin woman with coal-black skin and a sheer black veil. Her face, easily seen through the veil, showed her to be very old; her skin was as wrinkled as a dried apple, lines of age and experience drawn across it like roads on a map. Despite that, she moved so smoothly and gracefully that she seemed to float.

The crowd parted in front of her like the Red Sea; the expressions on most of the faces were fear, not respect. She paid no attention, looking straight ahead, walking slowly and calmly to the body.

She examined the remains carefully, pacing slowly in a circle around them, examining them from all angles. Upon completing her circuit, she dropped to one knee, dabbed a finger in the blood, and tasted it thoughtfully, as one might taste a fine wine to determine its varietal.

Slowly, she rose to her feet and faced me. This close, I could see her eyes through the veil; they were an unusually bright brown, nearly gold, and terrifyingly still. Her entire body was like that—completely motionless. Normal people are never completely motionless; they sway slightly as they subconsciously maintain balance, they swallow, they blink...at the very least their chest rises and falls as they breathe.

She did none of that. She stood like she was outside of Time itself, staring at me. It was the creepiest thing I'd ever seen, and I found my eyes locked immovably on hers like the mouse locked to the gaze of the cobra.

After a solid minute of silence, she spoke a single word in a voice that sounded like it was drifting up from the bottom of a deep well:

"Why?"

I stood paralyzed, not knowing what she was asking but absolutely certain that giving the correct answer was vital. An eternity later, I managed to push words through my throat.

"Because his death is my responsiblity."

She considered my answer for the single longest moment of my life before nodding; her aura of otherness retreated slightly. She still commanded all the respect due a ruling matriarch upon her throne, but not the stark awe-filled terror due a living avatar of Death.

"You will create a new seat at the Conclave table, co-equal to the rest, to be filled by whomever the minor churches select."

I was opening my mouth to assent when a commanding voice rang out across the Plaza, "Stop!"

All eyes, even those of the high priestess of Death, swiveled to the source of that clarion voice. The Archpriest of Flobovia swept towards us, white robes catching the late morning sun so that he seemed to glow. Behind him came a flying wedge of the six High Priests, all in full regalia.

"My Lord," said the Archpriest, speaking with the charisma and projection of a world leader, "It is not necessary to pay this woman of the Dark God such a high price. I shall return this man's life, as is my sacred duty to the nation, for the sake of justice instead of power-grubbing avarice."

I raised an eyebrow and looked again at the priestess in black. Through her veil I could see just the tiniest hint of a sardonic smile, but she said nothing. Instead she just stood calmly, looking at me and completely ignoring the Archpriest.

I'm no good at all with political shenanigans, but something odd was clearly happening here; there had to be a catch somewhere. I felt like I was wading through glue as I tried to figure out what it might be.

Perhaps the issue was something that I would need to provide? Something expensive or that would give the recipient power over me? "That's a very kind offer, your Benevolence. Will you need anything in order to perform the ritual? Spell components or such?"

"No, thank you. There is no need for you to put yourself out; the True Church will provide all that I require," he said in the tone of a kind parent graciously granting an ice cream to a favorite child.

I nodded absently, still thinking my way through it. "And you, High Priestess? Is there anything you would require, aside from the Conclave seat?" I had no idea what the correct form of address for her was, but I figured that 'High Priestess' was as good a shot as any.

"No." Her voice was quiet, but nonetheless it carried around the Plaza.

Ok, that wasn't it. I cudgeled my brain, trying to figure out what I was missing. Clearly, the Archpriest didn't want the minor churches getting a seat at the Conclave table—presumably because it would be a dilution of the power of his own church. Was there more to it? Would I gain an enemy whichever one I chose? Probably. Would I end up owing one of them a service? I didn't know.

I looked to Thomas for help. In a nearly silent whisper he asked "when?" with a head tilt towards the Archpriest.

It took a moment to figure out what he meant, but I got it. "When would you be prepared to begin?" I asked, addressing both of them.

The Archpriest paused, clearly looking for a weasel wording. "I will need some little time to request this favor from the True God, but there will be no risk of losing the man's soul. He can be brought back tomorrow as easily as today."

The priestess waited until he finished, then merely responded: "Now." Throughout the Archpriest's speech she never once glanced at him; strangely, it did not seem that she was acting petty by giving her rival the silent treatment. Instead, it was as though she were simply ignoring an utterly irrelevant element of her world, such as a leaf on a tree she happened to be walking past.

I nodded thoughtfully, understanding. The priestess had the spell memorized, the Archpriest didn't. Either one of them could bring the man back; the only difference was if it happened now or tomorrow morning.

Of course, there were other differences. Allowing the Archpriest to do it would help to cement my tacit alliance with him and likely win me his continued support in the Conclave. It probably wouldn't cost much either; as far as I could tell, the minor churches had very little political power and they were highly unlikely to try to harm me physically.

On the other hand, having the high priestess do it would mean granting the minor churches a position of significant political power in Flobovia...and, with that thought, the rest of the implications unfolded in my mind life an evil flower.

Granting the minor churches political power would seriously upset the religious status quo; worst case, it could lead to direct strife between the churches. Also, creating a Conclave seat for the minor churches would set an important precedent, and open up a can of worms—if there could be two seats for a given segment of the populous, why not three? Or ten? Could the ruler pack the Conclave with his supporters, simply by creating the needed seats, thereby gaining absolute control of the nation? If seats could be created, could they be removed? Could a ruler use that method to close off an entire segment of the population from representation?

And if I added a new chair, it would turn at least some of the Conclave against me. Not to mention it would do strange things to the dynamics of the Conclave itself. The two clerics would probably be at each others' throats on every issue, polarizing the Conclave. And, of course, there would now be eight seats, allowing for deadlocks. And, in this case, deadlocks could be a good or bad thing: a deadlocked Conclave would be unable to muck around in the affairs of the nation, thereby increasing the ruler's power. But increasing the ruler's power was dangerous when the ruler rotated every two years and some of them were ineffective or abusive.

And, of course, whichever choice I made, a crowd of a few thousand citizens would see that choice, thereby setting their impression of me.

By now, my head was splitting from all this political quicksand. There was no good choice, so instead I did what I felt was right.

"Your Benevolence, thank you very much for your kind offer, but I can't allow this man to stay dead longer than necessary. He has a family to go home to, and an employer who needs him. This is not intended as an insult, and I hope you won't take it that way, but I have to allow the High Priestess to cast the spell immediately."

Figuring I might as well make at least a little hay out of this given all the trouble it would cause, I faced her squarely and projected as clearly as I could. "High Priestess, would you please bring this man back? The minor churches will have their Conclave seat as soon as they choose their representative."

She nodded without speaking, then paced solemnly to the remains. With unexpected strength for such an old woman, she gently lifted the left half of the body and laid it respectfully next to the right. Removing her veil, she draped it over the man's face as though laying a blanket on a sleeping child. She studied him for a moment, then gently scooped up a handful of the mostly-coagulated blood and dabbed it on her forehead, cheeks, and eyelids.

Pacing slowly around the body, she faced across it to the north, raised the small pool of blood in her cupped hands in offering, and spoke to the sky.

Northern Death, cut too soon, cut too short  
God of Terror  
God of Fear  
Knees to water, hearts to lead  
Look aside  
Close your eyes

She lowered her hands and bowed her head in respect. A minute crawled by, then another. Finally she raised her head and paced a quarter turn clockwise around the body. Turning so that she faced across the body to the east, she raised her hands and spoke again.

Eastern Death, reaping old, growing youth  
God of Need  
God of Green  
Regret and sorrow, need and joy  
Look aside  
Close your eyes

Again she bowed in respect. Again she paced a quarter turn, faced across the body, and raised her hands to the sky.

Southern Death, pain ender, disease curer  
God of Surcease  
God of Relief  
Relief and regret, tears and wishes  
Look aside  
Close your eyes

Another bow, another quarter turn, and she raised her hands a fourth time.

Western Death, good friend, kind friend  
God of Welcome  
God of Peace  
Gently freed, loved and remembered  
Look aside  
Close your eyes

She bowed a final time, then paced forward, knelt by the body and removed the veil from his face. She lay it carefully aside before cradling the man's head in both hands. The pool of dried, blackened blood around them softened immediately into bright liquid crimson and flowed back into the gaping wounds. Where it entered, the separated body parts moved together, new tissue growing and knitting them shut. When the blood was all gone from the ground she bent down and kissed the man's forehead softly, as a mother kisses an infant. The blood on her brow, cheeks, and eyes softened and flowed downwards, across his face, across his throat and chest, finally sinking through the skin over his heart.

His eyes drifted open like someone waking from a good night's sleep. He lay there for a moment, blinking, and staring up at her. She waited patiently, still supporting his head and smiling softly. Finally, he sat up and looked around.

An awed murmur passed through the crowd. None of the normal people in this Plaza had seen a resurrection before; to all of us, death was an end, a horror and a misery to be avoided at all costs. Now, we had been shown an inkling that perhaps death was more than that, that it had a kindly face as well. It was a profound moment for all of us, and I felt deeply honored to have been part of it.

The priestess helped her patient to his feet and brought him to me.

"Leon, this is the man who brought you back," she told him gently. There was nothing terrible or terrifying left in her; she seemed like a wise and kindly grandmother, straight from Leave It To Beaver or Mrs Piggle Wiggle.

I stared at her in astonishment; I had had nothing to do with Leon's resurrection outside of a bit of political horse trading.

"Uhh...thank you, High Priestess, but you did this, not me."

She smiled. "A fire gives heat only when the builder lights it."

My brain was still pretty scrambled by what I had just seen, but I couldn't keep one thought out: any second now, she was going to say "when you can snatch the pebble from my hand, grasshopper..." Or maybe at the end of her sentences she would start putting her verbs, yes?

Leon bobbed his head to me, looking like he'd be holding his cap in his hands if he had a cap. "Thank you, M'Lord. Thank you very much. I'm a dockworker, I know I can't pay..."

I shook my head. "Leon, don't worry about it. I should have ordered the ends of the Wall to be folded back so that this couldn't happen, but I didn't think of it. Your death was my fault, and I had to make it right." I smiled quirkily. "Tell you what—you promise not to report me to OSHA and we'll call it even."

He stared at me, forehead creased in bafflement. "I won't tell a soul, M'Lord, I promise. No one. Not even my wife. I swear."

I laughed and waved him off. "It's ok, Leon, it was a joke. A small one. Almost invisible, actually. But feel free to tell anyone you want—after all, a couple of thousand people were watching and saw the whole thing, so it's not like we could keep it a secret.

"Anyway, let me give you a bonus—call it hazard pay, for being forced to work in unsafe conditions—and you take the rest of the day off. Spend it with your family."

He shook his head fast, like a dog shaking off water. "No, M'Lord, please, I can work."

"Thank you Leon, but—" I was halfway through repeating my suggestion that he go home when, from the corner of my eye, I caught Thomas' millimetric headshake, so I quickly switched to a new end to the sentence. "—I was just about to call a lunch break, so go eat before you go back to work. And thank you."

After Leon's resurrection, the workers' attitudes completely reversed; they still didn't understand why I wanted them to do all these strange things, but they no longer cared. I had shown my dedication to them, and they meant to return it in kind. They set to it with a will; many of the apprentice casters were dispatched by their masters to go and fetch other casters and other apprentices who hadn't shown up in the morning. The stevedors were no longer grudging about their tasks; they practically ran from place to place as they shifted loads and stuffed cannonballs into sacks. The magi burned up spells with abandon and then sent their apprentices off to fetch scrolls, rings, wands and more exotic items. They produced so many cannon, cannonballs, magnets, and wire that the stevedors couldn't keep up; the stuff started piling up here and there around the Plaza.

In addition, many of the random people from the crowd around the Plaza started helping. This was a mixed blessing; they were willing, but they lacked the experience, strength, and stamina of the professionals, so they tended to get in the way as much or more than they helped. To make matters worse, the crowd that didn't choose to pitch in still crowded closer to watch, and they were definitely in the way. Moreover, there just weren't enough hands available to keep them back without significantly reducing the rate of work.

After a while of fruitlessly asking the crowd to stay back Thomas sent for troops. A short time later, two companies of the Landguard and five of the regular army showed up, all in full battle rattle, to form a cordon around the square. It took some effort, but they finally managed to press the gawkers back to a convenient distance. Occasionally one of them would pop up, prairie dog-like, to look over the shoulders of the guardian soldiers, but for the most part they contented themselves with watching from afar. Work picked up again once they were out of the way.

We didn't knock off until the sun was near the horizon, by which time the magi were out of spells and the longshoremen were exhausted.

"Great job, everyone," I told them with the best impression of 'inspiring boss' that I could manage. I didn't think it was a particularly good impression but from the looks I was getting you would think I had just given the Gettysburg Address. I looked around and saw exausted but pleased faces so I decided to quit while I was ahead. "I'll see you all tomorrow, same time, same spells. G'night." With that, I beat a hasty retreat, the Landguard following.

We didn't head back to the castle though. I had my Landguard detail follow me out of the city with two of the few fully assembled cannons, and a fair amount of ammunition. (When I discovered that an extradimensiobal backpack was standard issue for the 'Guards, "a fair amount" became rather more like "oh my aching back.")

With a bit of effort, we got the cannon across the clear-cut area immediately around the city, through the wheat field, and near the edge of the Royal Forest.

I started futzing around, checking the first cannon over, making sure there weren't any obvious problems. Truth to tell, I was a little nervous about the test firing.

Finally, when I couldn't find anything wrong, I pulled on my big boy pants and got ready to blow the crap out of some trees.

That was when I noticed one of today's bodyguards standing beside me, shaking his head minutely with a frown; most likely, he didn't even realize he was doing it. I thought it was Rob but wasn't sure (really not good with faces here).

"Problem, Rob?" I asked, taking a gamble on his name.

He looked at me sideways just a bit. "If you please M'Lord—Robert. As you know, there's a Rob on my squad," (he nodded briefly to one of his men), "so we try to be careful about distinguishing our names."

"Right, sorry, my bad. Anyway...something's bothering you, what is it?"

He paused for a moment, clearly evaluating how to diplomatically suggest that his ruler was completely around the bend bonkers.

"I was...curious, M'Lord, about our purpose here. These toys you make...tubes and metal balls, I'm not sure how you can consider them weapons."

Now it was my turn to frown. "They aren't toys," I said defensively. "Look, these things are going to blow Deorsi troops into sausage, like I said. We'll need to test them, of course, to verify what their operational parameters are, but I'm sure they'll be fine. And then—sausage, really."

He backpedaled quickly. "Of course, M'Lord. I'm sure they will be very successful. Perhaps I simply don't know enough about them to appreciate them properly."

I waved him over to the nearer cannon. "It's dead easy," I told him, pointing at the various pieces as I walked him through it. "You pour some water down the barrel—preferably salt water because it conducts better, but whatever you've got. It puddles in this small depression here. You ram some wadding down the barrel and pour your ammo on top of that. Next, run an electrical current through this cable that comes in from the top and reaches into the depression. The water is hydrolized into hydrogen and oxygen gases and the water level drops. When enough of the water has been hydrolized, the cable is exposed; a spark arcs from the cable to the inside of the barrel and detonates the gases. The explosion blasts the wadding and the ammo out the barrel at the enemy. It'll come out fast and full of hate; anything in front of it is going to be in a world of pain." I grinned savagely.

As excited as I was about the idea of the cannon, I had to laugh at myself just a bit for using the expression 'fast and full of hate.' Yes, it sounded all kinds of tough and macho, but the truth was somewhat different; I had heard it from the instructor at a riflery course once, and it was pretty much the only time I had ever used a firearm in my life. I had taken one of those weekend-warrior courses given by Barrett Rifles; the instructor had been a former Force Marine Recon sniper, a man completely entitled to use manly phrases like 'fast and full of hate' when talking about manly subjects such as rifle ammunition. I, as a whitebread geek from the suburbs with no military service to my name, was not similarly entitled. Despite that, I'd never been able to resist such language.

All through my little internal monoluge, Robert had been staring at me with the look normally reserved for people who are in desperate need of a "hug myself" jacket. Now he cleared his throat and said, in a remarkably casual voice, "Yes, well, I'm sure all of these...things...will be helpful at some point. But are they really the best way to spend an entire day and all that magic, M'Lord?"

Now I was feeling downright defensive. The fact that none of the other Landguard, including Thomas, had spoken up suggested that they were all having the same doubts. "Look, just trust me, ok? It'll work."

"As you say, M'Lord," he responded, just like the excellent soldier he was. He still looked dubious.

Now I was sweating bullets; I really hoped this worked, because if it didn't I was in a lot of trouble. In retrospect I should have built one cannon and tested it before going into mass production. My brain quickly threw up the defense that doing it that way would still have required building the cranes and deploying the same high-level spells so it was just more efficient to have done it on a mass basis right from the start and that I had subconsiously recognized that right from the start and thay's why I had gone ahead as I had. It was very comforting to realize that.

Of course, it was also a total lie. I had not thought any such thing, I had just plowed ahead with an idea for a cool new toy that I was excited about.

Holy crap but I was praying this would work. If I'd ever been able to believe in something as fundamentally nutty as a god, I'd have been praying in earnest. Although, come to think of it, the gods (plural!) of this world were very demonstrably real, so being unwilling to sincerely pray was a bit nutty in and of itself. Meh, whatever.

I had done client demos before where the software wasn't really ready to be shown. That could be managed with a little razzle-dazzle; you stepped around the landmines, pointed at the good bits even if they were trivial, talked fast and sounded positive throughout. It worked surprisingly well because (a) non-programmers don't understand software and (b) most people are gullible and/or stupid. This situation, however, was a whole other level; an audience that severely doubted me, on whom I was dependent literally for my survival, with a product that would either function or not function, period. No fancy footwork was going to help here.

I forced a confident smile and said, "Ok, let's do this. Duncan, you've still got that handy instant-water thing, right? Pour—". I suddenly realized that I had no idea how much water would be required.

"Pour a gallon of salt water down the barrel, if you would," I told him. That was less than I thought would really be needed, but I figured it was a lot like cooking; you could always increase the amount of spice, but you couldn't take it out once it was in. Duncan did as I asked. looking dubious.

Once he was out of the way, I draped a loop of cable around the barrel and let it trail on the ground; without a grounding strap this either wouldn't work or, more likely, it would kill us all. Next I took some of the wire that was attached to the generator and carefully pushed it through the insulated hole in the side and diagonally down until I felt it touch the bottom. Pulling it out an inch I backed away slowly, paying the wire out as I went. In combat the generator would be beside the cannon so the wire wouldn't sag signicantly, but for this test I wanted a bit more distance so I draped the wire over the aiming wedges to prevent it from touching the ground.

Once the Landguard, the generator, and my tender self were all behind the second cannon, I checked everything over one last time and then turned to the Landguard to give what I sincerely hoped were not going to be final instructions.

"In a moment I'm going to crank the generator to create artifical lighting. Once I start cranking, stay low and behind this cannon. Do NOT touch the wire or it might kill you, got it?" Everyone nodded. "Ok, let's do this."

I took the generator's crank handle in both hands and took a deep breath. If I hadn't been an atheist I would have said a quick prayer, but as it was I just hoped really hard and started cranking as fast as I could.

The handle spun the bar magnet in the center of the generator. The thing was heavy as hell and my shoulders and biceps were on fire within a few seconds, but I kept it turning. Sweat popped out on my forehead and ran into my eyes; I took one hand off for a split second to wipe my face of my sleeve, but was still blinking the salt away as I got both hands back to work.

It took about thirty seconds, by which time my arms were screaming at me in loud voices and threatening to secede from my body, but I was finally rewarded. With no warning, there was an incredible BOOM! and the cannon exploded.

Cranking meant that I had to be standing up, with my upper body exposed over the protective cannon that the others were crouched behind. Not even the Landguard were fast enough to yank me to the ground when the explosion went off. Something went SPANG! off the body of the cannon we were hiding behind, passed my head going way too fast, and crashed through the corner of the generator's frame. Simultaneously there was a sound like golf-ball sized hail crashing into a tin roof at major-league-fastball speeds. I ducked way too late to matter.

Everyone stood up slowly, ears ringing, and looked at the cannon that we had fired.

The barrel was peeled open like a hideously ugly banana, jagged pieces standing out in all directions. One very large piece was missing; it had gone flying past me and stuck itself in the ground a few dozen yards away. The cannon we had sheltered behind had multiple divots in the side closest to the explosion.

As one man, the Landguard turned to me with accusing eyes.

I hurried to jump in before the recriminations could begin. "Ok, yes, need a smaller charge next time. But look!" I pointed downrange; a hundred yards away, half a dozen trees were chewed up—stripped of their lower bark and leaves, smaller branches wrenched off, large pockmarks and gouges everywhere on their trunks.

The 'Guardsmen considered the damage thoughtfully, then looked at each other in some sort of weird silent conversation that consisted mostly of facial expressions, shrugs, and small head gestures. I guess that's what happens when you live and train with the same small group of people for years; words lose some of their necessity. I envied them that close connection.

They turned back to me; Thomas spoke for the group. "Congratulations on an excellent attempt, M'Lord; the weapon clearly causes damage at a reasonable range. But a longbow can shoot signicantly farther while being much easier to transport, a Fireball does more damage at the same range or longer...and neither of them blows up in the user's face."

I was clearly losing this crowd, so I scrambled to get things back on the right track. "First off, this is short range for a cannon, giving it the edge over both longbows and Fireballs. As to blowing up in your face—like I said, we just use a smaller amount of water and we're fine."

"But the important part is the numbers; a Fireball may do more damage, but they only come from people with class levels—and even a high-level mage doesn't have more than half a dozen of them available unless he's burning up scrolls, wands, or that kind of thing. A cannon can be operated by a crew of commoners with no class levels. The Deorsi probably have a few thousand magi, but we've got millions of commoners."

They all looked surprised at that. Thomas spoke thoughtfully, clearly working his way through the logic. "That lets us mobilize the entire populace, makes them effective enough to matter, and gives them enough range that they don't get killed too quickly." He stopped, looking slightly gobsmacked. "Zero-level people killing people who have class levels...I can hardly believe it."

Duncan spat to one side. "So what? Untrained bastards'll run as soon as the enemy comes in sight."

Fortunately, I had this one covered. Who would have thought that a taste for military science fiction would have practical applications? (Oh, and—thank you John Ringo and Dave Drake!)

"No they won't, Duncan. Because the leader of each crew is going to be a regular army soldier with a crossbow and orders to shoot any man who runs."

Duncan raised an eyebrow and eyed me in the same way you would eye a terrier that had just growled like a mastiff. Then he sneered at me; his body language was only a small step less combative than when he curbstomped me behind the stables. "You can't stiffen a bucket of spit with a handful of pebbles, _My Lord_. They'll panic and swarm the officer, or just run in all directions so he can't get'em all. As you would know, if you had the slightest military experience, or even the basic sense to ask advice from the competent people. You had _one_ good idea with the bombings, and even there you got lucky. As for this half-assed lashup...I've got more years of service than you've got brain cells and I'm telling you that you just wasted an entire day of production and reams of magic on this stupid idea. There is NO WAY to make it work."

I bared my teeth in frustration and snapped back at him. "Duncan, I now officially declare this to be Your Problem. Figure out how to _make_ it work, because we ARE doing it. Now shut your mouth and start thinking, because I expect to see the first teams of cannoneers training by noon tomorrow."

He glowered sourly at me, but shut up, looking away. As he turned, I saw the slightest flicker of a smile, and knew that I'd just been tested again. Argh.

"Right," I said brightly. "Let's do some additional shoots with this second cannon. We need to figure out how big a charge we can use without it blowing the hell up."

* * *

_**Second Author's Note**__: I spent a fair amount of time doing the math on cannon size and mass, amount of electricity produced by the generators, and so on. I was quite surprised at the amount of energy that would be released by a gallon of water being electrolyzed to hydrogen + oxygen and then detonated. I had to go back and doublecheck all the numbers, assuming something was wrong somewhere. I then ran it through an online calculator that converts foot-pounds of energy to projectile velocity given the mass of the projectile; I got the results you see above. As far as I can tell, the above completely works. If anyone wants to try it out in the real world and tell me how it goes...don't. You would probably, as Jake put it, blow yourself the hell up._

_On a separate topic, the quote on the obelisk in the Plaza of Remembrance is a slight paraphrase of a quote from John Adams, and has always been one of my favorites._


	9. Battle Plans and Contact with the Enemy

_**Author's Note:**__ Total lack of ownership of the underlying game is declared._

_In other news: hey look, we have met the enemy and they ain't us! Also, yes, the generators __**would**__ be that powerful._

* * *

The morning dawned with a lead gray sky glowering down, ready to drop rain on us at any moment. Despite that, the magi, apprentices, and workers were all in the Plaza almost before the sun was fully up. Apparently, word had gotten out about the cannon testing from last night, because the crowd was even bigger than yesterday. By eleven'o'clock we had two companies of Landguard and seven companies of regulars ringing the Plaza, holding back a solid press of citizens who wanted a good view of this oddball yet fascinating spectacle.

And spectacular it was—even more workmen had come out than yesterday, and progress was even faster; cannon barrels, cannonballs, wires, and iron bars were practically flying out of the magi's hands, only to be raced over to the next group for finishing. A group of ropemakers had shown up with a great innovation for making the magnets: a pair of horizontal windlasses that mounted the bar between them and then turned with a crank, allowing the wire to be fed on rapidly and smoothly.

Things went great for the first few hours. I stood out of the way and watched, surrounded by ten Landguard and Thomas. (Evidently the Commander was feeling twitchy about how many people were gathered around the Plaza and had decided to beef up my detail.)

Occasionally I would notice something that wasn't running quite right and I'd either send a courier to resolve it or go myself. Mostly it was just a matter of unruffling some feathers; everyone was pushing hard, and they didn't like it when someone else's slowdown interfered with their own progress. Overall, everything was surprisingly smooth. We even had a delicious lunch that was provided free of charge by a consortium of the food vendors around the square. All in all, it was a great day.

And then it wasn't.

There were screams, wet chopping sounds, and people running in all directions. I couldn't see what was happening through the ablative wall of chainmailed meat that surrounded me, so I started to push forward. Before I could see anything, though, I was bodily lifted off the ground by two of my protectors who promptly accelerated away toward the castle. The others formed a solid scrum around us, facing out with weapons in hand and maintaining position even while running backwards. (_~Oh right,~_ a detached part of me thought. _~The Rules As Written give a running speed, but they don't specify you must be running forwards. Therefore, people can run at the same speed forwards, backwards, or sideways. Ah yes, the joys of an underspecified reality.~_) These did not seem like exactly the most useful thoughts I could be having at this exact moment, so I tried to focus on what was happening around me instead.

Through a tiny gap in the line, I caught a glimpse of troops in unfamiliar uniforms. They were appearing near the ziggurat, weapons drawn, and cutting a swath outward. They came on like army ants, with no apparent end to their numbers.

There was a phrase I'd read once, "a leemer is the feeling you get when a shot of cold urine goes through your heart." This moment was exactly that feeling. I didn't know how the Deorsi managed to teleport this many troops here this fast, but if they got a beachhead in the capital we were completely screwed.

"Stop! Put me _down_! We can stop them here!" I shouted, struggling uselessly against the Landguard who held me suspended.

They hesitated just slightly, glances shooting back and forth. Then I was on my feet and Thomas was spinning me towards him, gripping my shoulders intently. "How?" he demanded.

"The cannon! Get us to the cannon!" I told him, pointing frantically at the nearest.

They nearly ripped my arms off as they grabbed me, flashed to the weapon, and set me back on my feet. I didn't waste time trying to load the thing; at the rate the enemy was emerging a single cannon blast wouldn't do much more than create a break in the flow. Instead I grabbed a coil of the copper cable that was intended to connect the generator to the cannon proper and waved at the generator itself, "Grab that and come on!" I started running as fast as I could towards where the Deorsi were appearing.

Apparently the Landguard had decided that "in for a penny, in for a pound" was the motto of the moment, because they didn't ask any questions; Robert, Rob, Bob, Aerith, the goofy-haired one that was outside my door when I had Duncan dungpiled, and three others that I didn't recognize sheathed their weapons, grabbed the generator beween them, and jogged (the best speed they could make while weighed down by seven hundred pounds of iron and copper) after me. Of course, "after me" was right towards where a few hundred enemy soldiers were busily chopping their way through everyone in reach. My guys had brass balls to be running straight at an armed enemy with no weapons in hand and laden down by a load of metal, all without knowing why they were doing it.

Even carrying the generator, the magic-augmented Landguard were still faster than my Muggleriffic pace. Thomas and Duncan grabbed me by the arms again, lifted me off my feet, and carried me along like a woodchip on a flood. The rest of my Landguard protectors followed, wrapping around us in a protective ring.

When we were as close to the enemy as Thomas was willing to let me get, they set me on my feet and walled up in front of me.

"Duncan, use your Decanter, soak the area!" I ordered, offering up a silent prayer to whatever gods this world had that I had guessed right and that Duncan's flask of magically appearing water was, in fact, what I thought it was. A Decanter of Endless Water is an amazingly useful, amazingly broken, magical item. It does exactly what it says on the tin—on command it produces an endless stream of water. Depending on the command word used the water can be either fresh or salt and can be produced at any of three rates ranging from "fill your waterglass" up to "firehose." One Decanter can be used to sustain an army on the march, put out a small housefire, knock enemies over, propel a small boat, excavate dirt, blast the holder a short distance up into the air (useful for reaching second story windows, among other things), and a ton of other uses limited only by one's Munchkinly imagination,

Apparently, Decanters were standard issue for the Landguard (which I thought showed excellent sense), because Duncan and five of the others all pulled one out and started spraying toward the enemy.

A realization about basic chemistry hit me. "Salt water, use salt water!" I shouted. They each spoke a word and the air was filled with the smell of brine.

The Deorsi were aware of us now; dozens of them had wheeled and were charging toward us in frighteningly perfect formation. Behind them another two dozen or so unlimbered bows and took aim. More worrisome was that beside the archers was a—

"Mage!" shouted one of my protectors. Instantly I was on the ground, completely buried under Landguard bodies. A powerful hand clamped over my mouth and nose, cutting off all air. Whoever was doing it caught me on the exhale; I started thrashing, trying to get my face clear so that I could get a breath, but the owner of that hand was having none of it.

A moment later I was grateful; there was a boom-whoosh! like a gascan blowing up and all the air was superheated and sucked away. If I'd been breathing it would have been yanked right out of my lungs, ripping them up on the way.

A moment later the Deorsi infantry arrived en masse, shields set and swords ready to kill us. My protective meat-shield sprang up and moved to stop them, leaving me free on the ground. For a long moment, I just lay on the ground watching the clash. My mind was in a really weird state – the back part of it was screaming, but the front was ice calm. This wasn't my usual calm-in-a-crisis-shaky-afterwards, I could tell. This situation was simply too far outside my experience to register as real. When it did, I was going to lose my calm in a truly epic fashion, so I needed to be useful now.

Fortunately, my bodyguard were far calmer than I was. Bob and Aerith turned their salty firehoses on the charging troops, knocking several of them over and making others stumble. It didn't damage them, but it broke up their ranks so they hit our line in staggered bunches instead in an overwhelming swarm.

And once there were holes in their ranks, the Landguard went through those holes like a swarm of sharks.

There were too many of the Deorsi soldiers for Thomas and the others to hold a line; the enemy would have wrapped around them and been free to attack me. Instead, the Landguard warriors went straight in, flowing back and forth through the enemy lines and slaughtering every enemy that came within reach. It was like that scene in _Lord of the Rings_ where Aragorn gets his badass on and kills a few bazillion orcs. (Which scene? Whatever, pick one.) The Landguard worked perfectly together, seeming to know at all times exactly where each of their fellows was. At one point I saw Aerith deliberately turn his back on the enemy he was fighting and cut the legs out from one who was trying to bypass him. The first enemy wound up for a killing blow…and then one of the 'Guards that I didn't recognize passed by and took his head right off while moving on to another target. At first I thought it was incredible luck, but then it happened again. And again.

It was rather like watching someone stumble into a deli slicer; armed and armored Deorsi troops went in the front of the slicer and strip steak medallions came out the back. The term "flashing blades" is overused in schlocky fantasy stories like the one I had somehow stumbled into, but it absolutely did not apply here. The blades of the Landguard didn't "sing," they didn't "flash," they just moved casually through the air, sliding around their opponent's guard with contemptuous ease, and everyone they touched died. Thomas and Duncan did the most harm—every few seconds they each dropped three or four Deorsi—but none of the Landguard were far behind.

I had a sudden understanding of why the 'Guard were so stringently bound to their duty and such an effective deterrant against armed uprisings; this level of lethality was beyond my comprehension. I was sure it was utterly terrifying to those (such as the local nobles) more familiar with it.

But as fast as they killed the attacking troops, more surged up from behind. And more Deorsi troops and magi were racing towards us, recognizing that high-level characters were significant strategic assets for their enemy and were therefore prime targets. Glowing spheres of force were beginning to strike, swerving between the shifting ranks of the Deorsi to explode unerringly against Thomas. The others weren't being hit, just the single most lethal man on the Plaza.

_~Lovely_, I thought. _~An enemy smart enough not to divide their fire and numerous enough that we can't just stand and kill them all. Joy._ Forcing myself to my feet, I stumbled to the coils of copper wire and hooked one end to the generator. Grabbing an armful of the remainder, I dragged it towards where my own personal human cuisinarts were busy making Deorsi-fritters and tossed the cable into the dogfight. It landed as a tangled loopy mess in the big salty puddle that remained from our Decanter-enabled firefighting efforts.

"Landguard, out of the water! Bob, start cranking!" I shouted. Without the slightest hesitation Bob spun on his heel, taking a nasty cut in the process, and raced for the generator. The others bounded back, leaping out of the water and slamming together into a solid wall that stopped the Deorsi butt-cold when they tried to follow. Bob raced to the generator, grabbed the handle, and started spinning it like a pinwheel. There was a crackling noise, the air reeked of ozone, and all of the Deorsi troops standing in the water stiffened, screamed, and dropped to the ground, thrashing as though in an epileptic fit…or as though they were being electrocuted.

It was absolutely horrible; the cable was thrashing around like a snake on a hot plate, sparks were flying everywhere, and I could smell the delicious scent of sizzling bacon—which was suddenly revolting instead of delicious. I was pretty sure it would stay revolting from now on, which utterly sucked because, damnit, I _like_ bacon.

The generator was doing a great job of dropping all the nearby enemies to the ground and frying them, but in the process it had opened a clear line of sight between us and the enemy wizards. Until now they'd been holding off on their primary face-smashing spells for fear of hitting their own troops. That was suddenly no longer a factor.

There were four of them and they stared at us like dire wolves eyeing a sick caribou calf. And then they all moved and things went completely to hell.

The first cried "Dancing Lights!" and threw his arms up, tossing four red balls of light into the sky, where they took up a rotating diamond formation. _~Probably a signal to every Deorsi soldier on the continent to come stomp our heads in,_ I thought to myself.

The other three wizards were not nearly so cute and fluffy. Two Fireballs and a Lightning Bolt came flying our way, catching all of us in their blast.

I died.


End file.
